And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?
by Crukix
Summary: One moment was all it took for the ogre to crush the life out of Leandra Hawke. And in that moment, the lives of Kirkwall and its Champion were forever changed.
1. Flight of the Hawke

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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_Chapter One; Flight of the Hawke_

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She's dead.

She's dead and there's nothing he can do about it.

Ten feet of Blight stands above her, howling at the skies. The ogre roars, drools over itself and reaches down to pick her up once more.

He loses all control of himself. He races in, blades drawn and stabs the ogre as quickly as it can. It looks at him like he were nothing more than a bee, hisses and slices his face. He spins with the force of the blow, face screaming in pain just as loud as those that erupt from his throat. Blood pours from his face, down his chin and over the floor. He's fairly certain that his nose is on the floor staring back up at him.

Bethany's by his side, pressing her hands onto his face. He winces at the contact and flinches away from the sting of magic. She shifts with practiced ease, leans her knee on his chest and forces him to stay still. He's there for the longest moment, drifting out of reality and back into it. His world is upside down. He sees Shepard leap at the ogre and pull out muscle from legs that are as big as Hawke himself. Aveline catches a blow on her shield, falls back under the weight of it and just manages to hold onto her sword. Her husband is suddenly by her side, weakened swings barely fazing the ogre. It reaches for him, but Aveline's there, sword a blur and suddenly the ogre roars, hand spurting thick black blood and its fingers lying dead on the floor.

He tries to move again, to join the fight. Bethany forces him down again, throws a fireball at a darkspawn that comes too close and returns to healing him. Carver leaps over the both of them, slices a few darkspawn into pieces and is gone just as quickly. He races up towards the ogre, screams as he leaps at it and drives his blade down into the thing's face. It goes down shrieking like an unholy ox, flailing like mad and trying to pry him from its face. All of a sudden it goes lax and drops to the floor hard enough to make the ground shake.

It's over.

The thought doesn't even cross his mind as he's on his feet again, ignoring the throbbing in his face to see what's left of her. She's bloody, broken, crushed and nothing like she should be. Her eyes are white, looking into nothing and her chest doesn't move anymore. She's dead. She's dead. _She's dead. She's-_

"Hawke!"

He startles, tries to leap into action and succeeds only in falling flat on his back. The world around him rocks slowly, the sounds of the sea crashing against the outside of wherever he happens to be. He blinks, tries to focus his eyes. He sees wood above him, beneath him and all around him. Various faces of people huddled in corners, familiar and yet strange at the same time. He shakes his head, reaches up to his face and touches the now-familiar scar across his face. It still throbs with every heartbeat.

He flinches as the smells around him suddenly come back into reality. Human sweat, waste and Maker knows what else linger around him like a dirty uncle. He chokes on the smell, tries to fight past it and sit back up. Instead he finds himself floored again, fifty pounds of hot, sweating, drooling dog whining and gracing his face with slobbery concern.

He groans and rubs Shepard behind the ears. It calms down and retreats off him, letting him breathe again. He pushes his hands through thick black hair and stays there for a while, lying on the wooden floors. His beard itches. It's enough to keep him from falling asleep again. His nose still throbs and he's deathly aware that there's a huge red scar across half his face now. The ogre had killed her and managed to leave its mark on him too. What hadn't the Blight ruined? Their home was gone. Their family was ripped apart. The only good news lately was that his mabari had recovered. After everything, him getting Blight sickness wasn't exactly reassuring. Somehow he'd pulled through, thank the Maker.

He doesn't know what he'd do without the constant canine company. He can still remember the day when he first saw him so clearly. Father had come through the door and produced this little bundle of energy and fur wrapped in linens. Bethany and Carver had stopped arguing instantly to fawn over the dog. The smells of cinnamon buns roasting over a fire as he locked eyes with the dog. It whined, jumped out of Father's grip and trotted up to him. They locked eyes once more and it reached up, pawed at his legs and it was like he knew he'd made a new friend.

Mother had fretted, hadn't she? About how they'd never manage to keep a mabari in somewhere like Lothering. But he knew she was proud. They were signs of nobility, weren't they? What would she say now to see them living in squalor in this horrible ship?

"Hawke!"

His world shakes and he groans again. He rubs his eyes, barely aware he'd started to drift off again. He sighs, pushes himself up until he's sitting and tries to force consciousness into his body.

"We're docking."

He turns to the voice, eyes still shut. When he opens them he finds himself almost in the familiar orange haired, freckled face of Aveline Vallen. Even after weeks of barely eating, she still looks strong enough to lift a cow over her head and run for a mile. He feels like he'd barely be able to stay awake long enough to see that happen.

She touches his shoulder and waits until it looks like he's awake. He nods to her and takes the hand she offers to help him up. It's something that a random stranger they met on the road is now the only person keeping him from descending into madness. He's holding what remains of his family together and she's managing to hold him together too.

"Brilliant," he says, rolling his neck. Something cracks and he winces at the sound. Aveline's face is enough to make him laugh, despite the whining concern of his faithful hound. "So we're leaving a Blight-filled wasteland for the '_City of Chains'._ Do you think we'll be lucky and it'll have been named by kinky perverts?"

Aveline's mortification is evident even in her snort. He smiles a she does her best to glare at him for the comment. "I doubt that," she says, falling into stoicism. He sighs and reminds himself he needs to try harder. Aside from reactions to his crass jokes every so often, she hasn't so much as grinned since she had to kill her husband. Not that he can blame her, but still…

"Are you certain about this place?" she asks him. Her arms are folded across her chest – her no-nonsense pose, he recognises.

He sighs and shrugs at once. "Honestly? Not at all. But… it was Mother's request that we come here. Supposedly we have family still here – nobles, if nothing's changed since Mother left. But I'm not entirely certain three strangers, yet still relatives, a mabari warhound and a woman-shaped battering ram will be the finest persuasion tactic."

She scowls and jabs him in the side. "Careful Hawke," she growls as he yelps and flinches away. "There's only so far I'll tolerate your jibes."

He smirks and tries to subtly rub his side. "You say this now, Aveline. Give it time; you'll wonder how you ever lived without me."

"Maker, I hope not."

He snorts and hisses as pain flares through his nose. Tears in his eyes, he rubs his nose and says, "Keep that up and you'll start sounding like Carver. Speaking of that plank, where's he disappeared to?" He notices for the first time that people around him are slowly disappearing. They're all rushing for the ladder to leave the hull and were it not for the warhound with fearsome teeth and a terrifying glare, they would be rushing over them too.

Aveline jerks a thumb upwards. "They've gone up top. Your brother said something about needing fresh air as soon as he could get it. Personally, I think he's making sure it's safe out there. Bethany's gone with him, probably for the same reasons. Was it always like this, growing up with your family?"

"Like what?" He grins and leans against the wall of the hull. "Constant vigilance for would-be Chantry zealots? Pretty much." He drops his hands to his sides, grasping at imaginary weapons. He frowns and quickly folds his arms instead, the missing weights on his side paradoxically heavy. He knows they sold everything to get themselves onto the ship, including all their weapons and a few things they'd never get back.

They left Fereldan with nothing and now they were arriving in Kirkwall with even less.

"I see," Aveline says; her face creased in a frown. She turns around and it's gone, forced away once more. She has a pretty good poker face, he notes. She sighs and watches people flee towards fresh air. "At least we still have our lives. How are you holding up?"

He looks at her, shrugs and focuses elsewhere instead. "I have a smile on my face. That's enough for them."

She spins around, grabs his arm and forces him to look back at her. "You can pull that shit with your family, but you're not fooling me, Hawke." She doesn't so much let go of his arm as throw it back at him. "You didn't answer my question."

"What do you want me to say?" he sighs. Eyes on the floor, he revels in the silence, painfully aware of Aveline's glare on him. Finally he breaks and looks back up at her. "It plays in my head every time I begin to sleep. The ogre was there towering above her. Carver had just gotten knocked on his ass by a darkspawn and was about to be cut into two. There was another one behind Bethany, about to cut her down. I thought I would be fast enough to save them both, but I'd barely even stuck my daggers in the 'spawn behind Bethany before I saw you'd saved Carver and Mother was…"

He winces and looks away from her again. His fingers probe his scar once more, trying to fight the constant pounding it troubles him with. The amulet around his neck seems heavier than before, almost like it forces his scar to ache with each heartbeat. He wouldn't be surprised if that damn witch had cursed it – after all, he couldn't take it off, no matter how much he tried. She was certainly making sure he lived up to his end of the bargain.

"I'm sorry Hawke," Aveline says, grabs his hand and squeezes it. "Carver was the closest to me; I didn't see Leandra until it was too late. I…" She turns away, lets go of his hand and starts to leave the boat. "Nothing I say will be good enough. But I'm here if you need me. Family sticks together Hawke. Just remember that you don't need to protect me like you protect the others."

He sighs as he crouches down and rubs Shepard's face. "Maybe another day Aveline," he says to her retreating back, "right now I need to make sure my family's safe. Then I'll worry about myself." He shakes his head and suddenly it's like a switch has been flipped. He grins at his mabari rubs behind his ears and laughs to himself. "I don't suppose there's going to be any dragons swooping down to save us now, huh?"

His answer is nothing more than a concerned growl. Hawke shrugs, pats Shepard on the ribs and pushes himself back to his feet. He leaves the ship and his nose screams once more as the fresh, cold air charges him. Tears spring to his eyes again and he nearly loses his step. He catches himself and stares up at the open sky, watches the gulls caw far above them and sees the omnipresent jagged rocks that surround everywhere he can see.

He takes it all in and barely contains a flinch at the sight of the towering stone statues built into the mountainsides themselves. Tall figures carved from bronze, weathered from age and the sea both, but with details enough that he can still see anguish on their faces. Slave cuffs tie their wrists and ankles together. Broken bodies that he hopes are only through time and not design.

He shudders at them, imagining them to be real people. Tevinter statues as they are, he wouldn't be surprised if they were once people bound in bronze.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he feels a buzz in the air. He can sense the magic floating around in the place and it makes him decidedly uncomfortable. He remembers the feeling from growing up and living with Father and Bethany. This is like that… but amplified a dozen times over. It hangs in the air like a bad smell, drifting around them all.

Shepard sniffs the air and growls, haunches raised and ears flat against his skull. Hawke shushes him, scratches him between flattened ears and waits for him to calm. Any attention in this city full of Templars is going to be bad. The best case scenario involves them slaughtering dozens to escape. The worst case involves Bethany being run through and the rest of them being executed for harbouring _maleficarum._

He scoffs and rolls his eyes at the exact moment Carver growls, "Asshats." He smirks at the sudden coincidence and wonders if they're more alike than he would like to think. The thought unnerves him more than he wants to let on.

He finds Carver sitting atop a moulding wooden crate that looks barely able to hold his weight. Of course, considering he also seems to be built like a rock, Hawke wonders just how long it will be before it does collapse. As long as he sees it, that's the important thing.

Carver sits there, glaring at the crowd. Bethany stands behind him, shrinking away from the attention. It seems to be her nature to hide away from anything new until she trusts them. She watches people over his shoulder and hides away anytime someone starts to look in their direction.

"They're not letting anyone in," Carver growls. He points towards the crowd and makes a gesture. "All this lot just got thrown out for some reason or another. No one's allowed further in the city than here in the Gallows, by the sounds of it."

"They've got people living in the streets all around here," Bethany explains. She pulls at loose thread in her sleeves as she watches the people. "From what I've heard, some people have been here weeks, trying to get into the city. What chance do we stand? Are you sure this is wise Brother? This doesn't seem the best course of action."

Hawke glances at the screaming crowd and grimaces. "Mother wanted to come here," he says, rubbing his head. "We should see this through, if only for her. But when we get the first hint of danger, we get out of here as quickly as possible."

"Shouldn't we be leaving now then?" Carver slaps his knees, throws himself to his feet and glares at them all. "We shouldn't be in this pisspot of a city. Does it really matter that we let an uncle we've never met know that Mother is dead. That's what letters are for."

Aveline steps between the two brothers and frowns up at Carver. "This was the wisest course of action. Antiva and Rivain are too far away on what coin we had. Orlais isn't going to accept Fereldans across their borders anytime soon. With a Blight on our hands, Fereldan isn't safe. You saw Ostagar."

He throws his hands into the air and glares at her. "And for that matter, who is this woman and why are we bothering to keep her with us? It would have been far easier if she'd died to the darkspawn and Mother was here instead." He shoves her out of the way and stalks off into the crowds, disappearing amidst the sea of faces.

"Ignore him," Hawke says as Aveline looks at the floor. "He's an ass."

"He doesn't mean it," Bethany adds in quickly, rests a hand on Aveline's shoulder and tries to smile at her. "He's just upset."

Aveline's gaze is still on the floor. Her hands are shaking, Hawke sees. He curses as she shakes her head and turns her hands over. "He's right though, isn't he? It would have been easier if I'd died and been with Wesley. Then your family could be together."

Hawke grabs her hands and pulls them up so she looks at him. "Or, we'd have been dead were it not for you." He smiles as Shepard barks an agreement. He lets go of her hands and shrugs. "Carver's a bit of a tit at the best of times. He's hurting, so don't listen to what he says. In fact, don't listen to what he says in general. It makes dealing with him far easier."

"Brother!" Bethany hisses and punches his arm. "_Try_ to have a little compassion. Don't you remember? He was like this when Father died too!"

"I suppose," he says, trying to remember it. Mostly he remembers pant-wetting terror at being told he was the head of the house. And Carver being pissed he wasn't trusted to hold the family together. And Mother crying. And Bethany worrying that she wouldn't be able to control her powers without Father's help.

He remembers it was when they stopped calling him Garrett. After that, they only ever called him by his name when they were being nice or in trouble. He'd become the head of the house that day. That's the main thing he remembers.

He pushes past the memories and instead tries to find where Carver vanished to. Instead he finds only a crowd of faces begging to be let in. He sighs and rubs his nose. "Shepard, keep an eye… nose… _paw_ even out for Carver. When you get track of his scent, let us know."

Shepard barks a reply, stumpy tail wagging furiously. Hawke shakes his head and leans against the crate Carver vacated, hoping it doesn't break under his weight instead. He hears the shouts and demands of people trying to get into the city before deciding he's had enough. "Let's see if we can find a way to get into the city. If we find one, then we can grab Carver and drag his sorry ass with us."

"We should seek out whoever's in charge," Aveline suggests. She stands on her tiptoes, scans the crowd and points towards a man in the middle of everyone, bright, shining armour illuminating him like beacon. "The guards seem to be reporting to that man. We should talk to him first."

It comes as no surprise to them that they practically have to fight their way through the crowd. Hawke forces Bethany to stand between himself and Aveline and keeps Shepard on the sides. People try to pry past them to get through, catch sight of the fearsome hound before them and think twice, falling back in stunned silence. He doesn't know whether it's reverence for their state symbol or just fear of being mauled, but Hawke just stays happy that they're not causing too much trouble.

"My commander is further in," the guard tells them, points to a walkway nearby that seems to be nothing but a corridor of dungeons and shadowy corners. "Everyone here has been refused further admittance for acts of violence or causing disturbances. Keep in line, show respect and cause no trouble and you'll be allowed into the refugee quarters."

They make their promises of compliance and get further through. Hawke turns back to watch them all and snorts. "If this is a crowd of people who don't show respect, I'm honestly surprised Carver isn't here." He grins widely, expecting a reaction of some kind. Instead he sees Aveline and Bethany deep in a discussion of how many of the Lothering Templars Bethany knew by sight alone. He rolls his eyes and scoffs to himself, "Everyone's a critic. At least you're my captive audience, aren't you boy?"

He looks around for his hound and finds empty air meeting him instead. Shepard seems to have made friends with a few refugees and appears to be bartering his way into getting the remnants of their food.

"Typical," he mutters and turns his attention elsewhere. The stone around him is the same sand colour, bleached with age and still holding in the original design. It looks like a maze, complete with occasional iron gates. He feels remarkably like a rat and wants to flee for safety. Mages are the ones that live here, or so the guard said. Kirkwall's Circle is in the Gallows… he manages a grim smile at that. Why take mages too far away from the place where they'd hang them for crimes, after all?

Thick black gates bar their way and they move around another corner to progress through the natural maze. Hawke finds himself staring at the gates a moment longer, imagining traitor's heads spiked atop them. He gets the picture of Loghain's dead head staring back at him from atop the gates, smiles a little to himself and turns back away.

He trips over a crack on the floor, swears and sees no one noticed it. It's a miracle anyone can walk here, considering the floors are nearly all cracks and broken stone, he muses. Magic seems to leak through the stones themselves, getting stronger and stronger the more restricted the tunnels get. Bethany scowls and plays nervously with her collar. He sees the way her fingers are dancing over frayed ends of fabric, trying to distract herself from magic. He remembers hearing Father instructing her on that – magic leaves the mage with fidgeting hands. In areas of higher magic, twitching hands means a mage trying to ignore the Veil.

He sincerely hopes the Veil here isn't weak. He's seen the results of tears in the Veil before – Father took them all out one day to show them the horrors that would pour through when it tore. Of course, everything they saw was dead, but it was still enough to frighten them beyond all measure. Carver and he and been too afraid to go near either Bethany or Father for over a week, he remembers with a soft laugh.

Aveline seems to notice the change too. She seems unsure, tense at something but confusion palpable. It seems even those who have no familiarity with magic notice the strongest changes. He decides that this place is somewhere to stay away from, should they get into the city. Father warned him once of the limits some desperate mages may go to when they feel oppressed.

Then he showed them the remains of a blood mage. In fact, a lot of Father's lessons had come with gruesome displays of dead things. Perhaps that was why slaughtering masses of darkspawn was easy for all of them. That and the fact that the things are unholy creatures from the Forbidden City and a plague on everything living on Thedas.

Bethany sighs and forces her hands to her sides. She's realised she's playing her mage tells, Hawke realises. One of Father's lessons – make sure you know everything that marks you as a mage and learn to control them. She shudders and hugs herself, hands pale white as they grip her elbows. "This is where they keep mages here…?" She looks around, eyes wide in obvious horror. She shudders again, rubs her arms and keeps her gaze towards the floor. "It's no wonder why Father escaped. It's horrible here."

Aveline rests a hand atop Bethany's arm. "We shouldn't be here long." She nods with her chin towards a sole guard talking to a group of heavily armed men. "He looks like the description we were given by the other guard. I think that's who we're looking for."

"As long as it's not the heavily armed thugs that are surrounding him, then we should be fine," Hawke mutters. He glances back and sees his hound trotting back up towards him, licking his chops loudly, blood trickling down his chin. Hawke decides he doesn't want to know what Shepard's found to eat around here and forces himself to look back to the guard. "Maybe that's just a group of helpful citizens offering to help refugees into the city?" He looks back to Bethany and Aveline, sees their raised eyebrows and sighs to himself. "Just me? Fine, I'll forget about remaining optimistic."

"Optimism's useless when we're weaponless," Aveline reminds him. She places a hand on Hawke's arm and nods at a few of the men. "Those three are the least trained; you can see it in the way they stand. The one at the front, in front of the guard and the two around him? They're trouble."

"So if they cause a fight, kill those three first?" Hawke asks, punching a fist into an empty hand.

"Deal with archers first," she says, slapping his hands with the back of hers. "But keep focus on them. We're outnumbered and outmatched if it comes to a fight."

"We have a mabari though," Hawke says with a grin. He leans down on his knees and presses his head against Shepard's. "You want to rip some thug's throats out, do you boy? I'll let you chew on their shoes if you do it without getting hurt."

Shepard throws back his head with a bark, drops his front to the floor and starts to growl in the direction of the thugs. Hawke smiles, pats him on the head and pulls him back by the scruff of his neck. "Not yet boy," he says, scratching him behind the ears.

"We'd have better chances were Carver with us," Aveline says.

Hawke shrugs. "What can I say? Carver's an ass. If he's upset, the world has to stop just so he can get all his sulks out of the way."

"Can you just stop?" Bethany sighs, hand on her head. She glares at them both from behind her hand. "Carver's hard to understand, yes, I know that. But he also _does_ mean well, even if he doesn't show it. Give him a chance and stop being so hard on him."

"I'll give him a chance when he realises that he's not the only person in this family," Hawke grunts. He shrugs at Bethany's constant glare, offers a small smile and says no more on it. He knows Carver has to deal with things his own way. He just wishes that Carver would man up and understand he's not the only one whose world has fallen apart. Right now Hawke would like nothing more than to storm off and cry in a dark corner until everything felt good again. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the luxury.

He shoves one of the slimmer thugs out of his way and stands in front of the guard, a smile on his face. The leader of the thugs – a man just a few years older than Hawke, scratchy brown hair and wild stubble – pulls his lips back in a sneer.

"What do you want?" he growls. "Can't you see _we're _talking now?"

"Yes, but it looks like you might take all day to think of a sensible reason for your entrance into the city," Hawke says with a smile. The man grunts at him, blinks wildly and drops his hand for his weapon. The guard clears his throat and the man stops suddenly, nods tensely and glares at Hawke as he steps away.

"What happened to staying cautious?" Aveline hisses into his ear.

"I was being cautious. I could have stolen his sword and stuck it through his chest had I wanted to," Hawke whispers back. He smiles at the guard who looks back at them all with palpable boredom.

"More Fereldans," the guard sighs and buries his face in his hand for a moment. "Listen, there's no space for you here in the city. Were it up to me, I'd let people through. But under the Knight-Commander's orders, we're not to let anyone into the city. We're already strained for people as it is."

"And you're sure the Knight-Commander isn't just crazy and seeing apostates everywhere?" Hawke folds his arms and leans his head back. "We're clearly not mages. We lack robes. And staves. And a general sense of 'run-or-I'll-become-a-blood-mage!'" He waves his hands above his head, smiles at the dark look Bethany gives him and chuckles as he sees a smirk break onto the guard's face.

"Saying that will only make me think you _are_ mages," the guard says, pointing a finger at them.

"Point," Hawke concedes. He tries to wash away the fear he feels from knowing that no one's allowed into the city with a large gulp of bravado. "But we have ties in the city. We have family who live here. If you send someone to find him, you could find that a few refugees suddenly were out of your hair."

"His name is Gamlen Amell," Bethany says quickly. Hawke sees the way she flutters her eyes just slightly and smiles to himself. Mother's teaching, no doubt. She always used to tell her that a few smiles here and there could help distract people long enough for her to escape. His stomach twists into hard knots at the memory, even as he hears Bethany continue, "He's a noble, here in the city."

The guard scratches his chin with one hand, the other held up to silence the protesting thugs. "The only Gamlen I know is a weasel who couldn't rub two coppers together. However, I can send someone into the city to find him and see whether or not he can let you into the city."

Good news and bad news. Hawke doesn't know whether to smile or to cry. He gets to do neither as the thug leader shoves him out of the way, draws a knife and points it into the guard's face. "You're letting _them_ into the city and not us? We've been waiting here for _days!_" He waves a hand into the air. "Men, we're forcing our way through! Kill them all!"

Hawke snatches the man's sword from his scabbard and spears him on it. He manages to glance back, mouth open wide and trickling blood before he slumps over, dead. Hawke kicks him off the sword, spins round and meets a strike with it held above his head. He twists out of the blow, swings the sword around and slices through the man's stomach. Entrails and organs spill out onto the floor beneath him. He grunts, snatches a dagger from the man's belt, slices it between his ribs and moves onto the next victim.

He sees Shepard leap upon one that was too close to Bethany. She ducks around a blow and grabs the man's wrists. His face drops open in pain as he drops his daggers to the floor. He goes to scream something but she's already pressed a hand to his chest and pushed fire through his heart. He goes down smouldering as she grabs his daggers and tosses one to Hawke.

He catches it with grace, spins and slams his elbow into someone's face. He hears Aveline grunt behind him and hears the clang of steel. She's there, shield from someone held above her head and her feet rock-steady on the ground. She doesn't even glance behind her as she reaches back, takes the sword from Hawke's hands and stabs a thug in the stomach.

Hawke smiles at her, swears and throws a dagger with all his might. It lands in a thug's throat, his blade inches away from Bethany. She glances at him, eyes wide and leaps away from his falling corpse. She curses the air blue as he bleeds over her, spins around and slams her hand into the face of another man. He goes flying backwards and lands on an iron gate, bars spearing through the back of his head and out the front of his face. She turns, slips on the bloody floor and falls on her back. There's someone in front of her, halberd raised for a killing blow. She scrunches her eyes shut and there's a metallic clang above her. She finds herself looking up at Hawke, holding back an entire spear with nothing but a dagger and sheer willpower.

She rolls forwards, grabs the thug's ankle and pours magic into him. He screams, flails and suddenly fire bursts out from his mouth. Hawke grabs her, pulls her up to her feet and glances around for witnesses. He sees none, smiles and throws his dagger at an archer. The thug dodges it but Hawke's already in his face, hands around his neck and with one quick flick, he snaps the man's neck and drops him to the floor.

Aveline catches another blow on her shield. She spins with it, slams the shield into someone's face and hears his teeth bounce along the floor. A scream and she buries her sword in his neck. Blood sprays all over her as she pulls it free and charges at someone else. She cuts him down, finds the last in a duel with the guard and cuts him down from behind. The guard falls back a step in surprise, collects himself and sheathes his blade.

"Are you okay, serah?" she asks him.

He nods, eyes on Hawke as he collects weapons from the fallen. Aware of eyes on him, he offers a toothy smile and continues collecting what he needs. He slides two daggers and their sheathes onto his belt, hands Bethany a spear and the harness for it and gives Aveline the sheathe for her sword. He smiles up at the guard and shrugs. "It's not like they're going to use it anymore, is it?"

"Quite," the guard agrees with a weary sigh. He shakes his head and glances as the mess. "I suppose it is only fair you take their weapons. You did fight them whilst unarmed, after all." He steps towards the fallen leader and pokes his corpse with his boot. "Thank you all for your timely assistance," he says, looking back up at them. He brushes himself down and succeeds only in smearing blood over more of his uniform. "Maker knows I needed it. This really does illuminate how much we are in need of new recruits for the guard. I can't let any of you into Kirkwall, but if it were up to me, I'd let you go in right now. However, I can say now that if you get into the city, apply for a position in the city guard. I'll see to it that your applications are approved."

Aveline's the first to bow her head. "Thank you serah," she says. The guard nods again, curses late-arriving guards and orders them to bring the elves for clean-up duty.

"Thank you for the offer, serah," Hawke says as he steps up to the guard. "But before we leave, may I ask if you've seen someone about my height, wearing Fereldan armour? Black hair, slight bit of stubble, looks like a rock and has the intelligence of one too."

The guard snorts a laugh. "I remember someone like him. Relative of yours?" He points towards the east. "He went towards the quarter over there. They're handing out food to refugees there, but as can be expected… there's a number of unsavoury sorts that are making themselves home there. If he belongs to you, I advise getting him out of there as quickly as you can."

Hawke bows his head. "My thanks, serah," he says, shaking the man's hand. He smirks, sees his opportunity and makes him move. No one notices his sleight of hand and he quickly sneaks his plunder underneath his shirt.

Bethany smiles as she pats Shepard on the flank, signs of freshly healed wounds evident in patches of missing fur. She leans over Hawke's shoulder and tries to see what he has in his hands. "Do you think he's gone to find food then?" she asks and startles him back into reality. He glances up at her, smirks as he shrugs and goes back to reading a parchment half-hidden in his clothes. "What have you got there?"

He grins a toothy grin. "Our ticket into the city."

Aveline's behind him and peering over his shoulder in an instant. "What is that Hawke?" she hisses, grabs his ear and pulls on it. "Where did you get that?"

"Ow! Maker's breath, woman! Stop! I'll show you!" He hisses as she lets go of his ear, hands her the parchment and tries to rub the pain in his ear away.

"You pickpocketed a guard after just helping to save his life?" Aveline mutters as she rubs her head. "Flames, Hawke. Do you even think before you do something?"

He shrugs, lopsided grin across his face. "Sometimes."

Bethany scoffs at him and peers through the letter. "It's got an official seal on it," she says tensely. She holds it out as Shepard paws at her leg, lets him inspect it and continues to read it as he barks his approval. "It says they're to be on the lookout for the Viscount's son – he's supposedly here, helping to hand out food to the refugees. There's a little thing about how the Viscount wants this under-wraps because someone might try and use his son against him or something."

"Meal-ticket," Hawke sings, clapping his hands together. "We find this Saemus Dumar, keep him safe from all the nasty's that hide in the dark and then the Viscount owes us a favour and lets us into the city."

Aveline slaps his shoulder with the back of her hand. "I hope you've thought this through. It's a good plan, I can't argue that. But surely there could be wiser ways of going about this?"

He shrugs and rubs his shoulder. "Either we do this or we wait for a man we've never met to get us into the city."

Bethany nods and hands him back the parchment. "I say we help this Saemus," she says as he tucks it away back under his shirt. "I don't like what the guard said when we mentioned Gamlen's name. A weasel who can't rub two coppers together? It doesn't sound like he'll get us into the city in anyway."

Aveline nods and folds her arms over her chest. "It's your decision. Either way, I'm with you, Hawke."

"Great," he drawls. "I'm the leader of this merry band of misfits, huh? This can only end in doom and despair."

**-x-X-x-**

"Bloody ass of a brother, bringing random strays along with us that think they're so high and mighty…"

Carver stalks his way through the lower quarters of the gallows, his glares enough to deter most from begging him for coin. Those that try are met with cold shoulders frigid enough to rival a mage's spells. They quickly disperse away from him, leaving him to continue ranting to himself.

He sees the dirtied poor all around him and boils in hatred even more. It was so different to what had been their normal life back in Lothering. They may not have been the richest family there ever was, but they'd always had enough to get by on.

Then everything had changed.

_It stands above her, drools and with an arm as big as a house, reaches down to grab her. He screams from on the floor, flinches as a darkspawn appears in his face and something wet splashes all over him. He opens his eyes to steaming black blood over the floor, headless darkspawn and Aveline stood above it._

_But the ogre is already done with her. She lies on the floor, crushed, dying, struggling to breathe – _

"Stop thinking about that," he hisses and slaps himself in the face. He can't think about that. He remembers hating himself for not being able to reach her. He still does. He hates the fact he doesn't hate either his brother or sister for not being there first. He saw his brother race to save Bethany and saw the despair in his face when he realised he wasn't fast enough to be able to save Carver himself, let alone their mother.

He hates the fact he couldn't save her, hates the fact his brother had to choose who to save and hates that he saw him so heartbroken when he thought that he wasn't going to be able to save his little brother.

Carver hates everything and that only makes him hate himself all the more. He feels like a burden now that he's seen the moment of clarity in his brother's face. He knows they've always felt like that towards Bethany – that she was not only their sister but everything they had to protect. He likes being the protector, not the protected.

He grunts in pain as he squeezes his fingers into a fist hard enough to draw blood.

He forces himself to focus on reality. He sees more dirty faces; some huddled in makeshift tents, others sitting on a piece of ragged cloth and some on the dusty floors themselves. They're all filthy and he's spent the past few weeks trapped inside a hovel of a ship. The people here are broken and weeping. The veterans of war sit around him, too weak to look after themselves and too strong to die.

He turns away from them and stalks down a random corridor of stone. He's angry at the city for leaving them like that and angry at himself for not being able to help them. He feels the walls close in around him and curses them and the Tevinters who built the city.

He stops in a crowded open space and sees the people clambering for attention. He turns his gaze away from them and tries to figure out just where the hell he's ended up.

"Where in the name of Andraste's flaming undergarments am I?" he hisses, throws his hands into the air and shoves his way into the crowd. He sees a stand built of wood in front of him, atop which lay a number of crates and small parcels. There's one person up there, a man – a _boy_, not much older than Carver himself – who wears rich blue silks that scream wealth. His hair is black and wild and yet he's smiling as he's handing out parcels of food into the crowd.

_At least someone here gives a shit._

He's just about to leave when something makes his stomach twist in knots. The crowd slowly descends into silence and start moving away from the stand. He finds himself stood in the middle of an open space, just as confused as the boy standing up there, food parcel still waiting for someone to receive it. He glances to the side and Carver follows his line of sight, sees a group of men approaching and feels his stomach knot just a bit tighter.

For the group are all heavily armed and have faces hidden behind shrouds.

"This can't be good," he mutters to himself and quickly tries to look like he's not paying any attention to them whatsoever.

"Saemus Dumar?" he hears one of them say. He glances over his shoulder to see the group standing next to the boy. There's one man stood close, heavily armed and with what looks like a blade hidden inside his sleeve. Carver grits his teeth and starts to wonder just what's going on here.

"We have a message from your father," the one in front says. "He instructed us to bring more food to help you aide the refugees." He steps back and extends a hand, gesturing to a nearby alley. "We were sent to guard it and you. If you would kindly step this way, serah, we can help you distribute it fairly."

_Surely no one's stupid enough to believe-_

"Father's come around?"

_-that._

The boy brightens and practically leaps at the man. Carver wonders just how the hell the boy doesn't realise it's a trap. He wants to scream warnings to him, but knows that will only draw attention to himself.

"Please, lead me towards his donation!" the boy declares and happily follows after the group.

Carver watches them lead, head and heart in two different places. "Surely someone so naïve is just going to end up dead another day," he whispers to himself. Still, he creeps after them, drawn in by a morbid sense of curiosity.

"I don't understand!" the boy is saying, spinning around wildly and eyes wide like a trapped deer. "Where are the food donations you said Father donated?"

The leader steps forwards, clamps a hand around his neck and holds him up against the wall. "I didn't think anyone could be so stupid. You've got a contract out on your head, boy," he says as the boy kicks against empty air and scratches weakly against the arm holding him up. "The Winters are going to take back your pretty little head and reap the reward."

Carver swears as the boy whimpers and the man draws a knife. He sneaks in behind the group, grabs the rear guard on either side of his head and snaps his neck. The man goes down with a yelp and a crash of armour and suddenly Carver finds all eyes on him.

He curses. Brother would have a witty comment to hand already. Sister would probably just fireball them from here. Instead he puffs out his chest and declares, "Leave the boy and you get to live."

Obviously, the mercenaries think him less than threatening, for they burst out laughing.

The leader scoffs and throws the boy to the side. Even as Carver wills him to run with his eyes, the boy continues to lay there in the alley, cowering like a frightened child.

"What are you, the boy's Dog-lord lover?" the leader growls and points his knife at Carver. "Whoever you are, you die here."

Carver swears as the boy continues to stay on the floor. He charges the first man he sees and surprise alone lets him punch him in the jaw hard enough to make something crack. The man drops and Carver catches him, snatches a dagger from his belt and stabs it through the man's eye.

There's a sickening squelch and horrible screams. He ignores it, rips the dagger free and uses it to meet a sword that aims for his head. His arms rattle with the impact and he feels his teeth shake. Brother would know how to handle the dagger. He would know it's not a sword and shouldn't be used like one. Carver hates himself for allowing himself to start comparing and forces his brain to shut down.

He hears the twang of a bow and drops to the floor. An arrow skins his arm and draws blood. It stings, but it's not fatal. He stabs the nearest man in the chest, pulls himself up with the blade, sticks his hand in the man's chest and rips his lungs out from inside. He buries his hand in there again, readies his strength and throws the corpse at the nearest person. The man screams as his dead comrade falls on him while Carver slings his dagger at the archer.

Predictably, it misses. He curses and knows his brother would have made the shot.

Wind splits near him and shuts his brain down again. He reacts on instinct; grabs the man around his wrists and slams his knee into the man's gut. He hears something crunch underneath his blow, steals the man's sword and smashes his face in with the pommel. Steel in his hands, he twirls the blade, slices its previous owner's chest in two and charges through the blood at the archer.

The archer's quicker than him. He ducks the first strike and lets Carver fall with the momentum. Carver hisses, turns himself slightly and lets gravity allow him to drop on the man's shoulder. He bounces back off him, rears back and smashes his skull on the man's nose. Blood sprays everywhere and the man screams until Carver buries his sword deep in his throat.

He wipes blood from his face and looks for the last one. He holds the sword in front of him like a shield and inches around the mess of organs on the floor. It takes him less than a moment to find the last surviving member of the mercenaries.

Unfortunately, he's holding the boy up by the hair and holding a dagger to his neck.

"Now see here, Dog-lord! You put that sword down and I don't paint the walls with this pretty boy's blood!"

Carver hisses curses at everyone he can think of. The boy's trembling, looks close to pissing himself and Carver hates the fact he can't do anything about it. He wishes he has his siblings with him. Garrett could stick a knife in the man's throat with a flick of his wrist. Bethany could fry his brains from the inside out with a moment's thought. Carver…

Carver's just muscle. A battering ram with a broadsword and too far away to even so much as poke the man with the tip of it.

Brother would have a comment handy here, too. Most likely something about not wanting to get his blades covered in brains. Even Aveline would be able to diffuse this by just glowering and scaring the man into surrender. Carver has nothing but an angry tongue and a severe sense of self-loathing.

He growls through his teeth and lowers his looted sword to the ground. The man eyes him nervously, arms shaking furiously and his gaze constantly drawn everywhere, almost like he's expecting more danger to come.

Inspiration suddenly strikes. Carver manages to smirk and looks up at the rooftops. "You didn't think I came alone, did you?"

The man glances upwards with a yelp, shoving the boy away and darting for cover. Carver covers the distance between them in two leaps and spears the man through the chest. He gurgles, gives him a surprised, almost resentful look before he goes lax and slumps on the blade. Carver swears as it pulls him down and he tries to wrestle his sword free from the man's spine.

It takes him a moment to reclaim his sword and wipe himself free of blood. _Not the most graceful rescue ever._ He snatches a harness for his sword from the dismembered corpses and holsters them on his back. Once he's certain no one's going to leap out of the moulding crates, he steps towards the boy. "They're dead," he says and offers a hand. "Whatever bounty that's on your head isn't my business. Try not to follow strangers into alleyways anymore."

The boy's bright red as he accepts the hand up. "T-thank you serah," he says and boys his head. Instantly he turns green and tries to look away from the carnage. A little chunk of meat is caught on the bottom of his cloak and Carver has to fight a smirk at the boy's subsequent freak out. He manages to pull himself together long enough afterwards to bow his head again. "I am Saemus Dumar. It seems my father has enemies that are not above using his family as leverage against him."

Carver shrugs. "Some people are scum, but family always looks out for each other. " Saemus gives him a confused look and he rolls his eyes. So maybe every family didn't grow up with the constant looming threat of 'hide your father and sister from mage-haters', but still, his point stands. He sighs as the boy continues to look at him. "I'm Carver, by the way. Carver Hawke."

"Hawke?" Saemus presses a hand to his chin and tilts his face to the sky. "I don't recognise that name." He looks back at Carver, catches a glimpse of gore at his feet and daintily distances himself from it all. "You're not from Kirkwall, are you?"

"We got here today," Carver says. He glances at the bodies and pulls a face. Not one day fully in Kirkwall and already he's slaughtered mercenaries. He knows he needs to get away from the bodies as quickly as possible before someone sees him with them and reports him to the guards. Standing here talking to this boy isn't going to help him escape, after all.

He shakes his head and gestures out of the alley. "I think you should go back to where you're safe. Can you make it on your own?"

Saemus glances at the bodies on the floor once more and grows even paler. "I think I can, but-" he shrieks as three shadows appear at the bottom of the alley and hides behind a crate as Carver draws his sword once more.

"Really Carver?" Hawke says with a shake of his head, arms out wide. He kicks away the mess of entrails with a grimace and sighs dramatically. "I know you were in a bad mood when you left us, but really? Slaughtering shadow-faced henchmen? Is that the wisest course of action?"

Carver stares at them for a long moment, genuinely surprised. A little part of him considers smacking his brother in the face with the pommel of his sword and pretending he thought he was another mercenary. As quickly as he thinks it though, he throws it away, disgusted with himself. He holsters his sword and finds himself nearly knocked off his feet as Bethany throws herself at him.

"Are you already?" she asks, checking him for cuts. She finds the one from the arrow and a few he didn't realise were there before she glances around and spreads her hands over them. Carver hisses, grabs her hands and squeezes them until she yelps and stops. He nods towards the crates and she draws away quickly, eyes wide. She nearly trips over Shepard as he noisily starts to eat the remains on the floor.

"Stop that," Hawke says quickly and reels back as Shepard whines and tries to lick his face. "No! Stop! I don't want intestine-breath on my face!"

Carver can't help the glare that falls onto his face as Aveline strides towards him. She doesn't even stop to move the corpses, instead just walks straight over and through them. That alone is enough to terrify him just a little bit more about the woman. She stops in his face, matches his glare and then turns away with a sigh. "I swear, between you and your brother we're never going to get ourselves into the city."

From behind the crates, Saemus pokes his head out. Aveline and Hawke both swear, drawing their weapons instantly. Carver barely hides his laugh in a cough as Saemus squeaks and dives back under cover. Aveline and Hawke remain motionless, faces betraying their confusion.

"They were mercenaries," Carver says, sweeping a hand over the floor. "They were after him. Saemus Du-something."

Hawke's eyes practically light up as he slides his daggers back into his belt. "Saemus _Dumar?"_

Saemus squeaks and looks up from behind the crates once more, demeanour of a frightened rabbit. "That's me," he says quickly and squeakily. He looks up at Carver, eyes wide and fingers gripping the edges of his crate-barricade. "Do you know these people?"

Carver fights the urge to sigh and leave him there. "Yes. My brother, my sister, my brother's mabari and our… cousin." He glares at Aveline as he sees her mouth drop open slightly. She nods and pulls a poker face just as Saemus glances over at them all. As soon as he looks away, she throws Carver a million and one questions all in one confused raise of an eyebrow.

"Well, as nice as this is, shall we move away from the slowly rotting corpses?" Hawke suggests with a clap of his hands.

Carver shrugs and files out of the alleyway last. Saemus hides in himself, sticking nearby and leaping at every shadow. Carver rolls his eyes and glances back at the stand where all the food once was. Instead it's now empty, looks like a pack of rabid darkspawn have moved through and claimed everything for themselves and then thrown everything they didn't want away. He sighs and stares up at the open sky, wondering why he doesn't even get any sort of reward for his acts of heroism.

He grunts as he feels something placed in his hands. He finds his brother smiling at him, parchment in his hands and an apple wrapped within.

"You'll want to read that. And that's about all we could salvage from the food sacks over there. We've already ate our share; we couldn't save you any peaches. I know how you _love_ peaches."

Carver goes bright red and considers throwing the apple in his brother's face. He scowls as he slinks away to join their sister, moves his attention to the parchment in his hands and devours the entire apple, core and all in record time.

He nearly chokes when he reads what the letter says. He passes it off as a bad cough and slides the parchment into his battered uniform. Seamus is the Viscount's son. He's done a job the city guard were meant to. Carver can't help but smirk to himself as he thinks about it all.

"So Saemus," Hawke says conversationally. "The Viscount's son? What's that like? Do you get to call people peons and declare they're not worthy of your presence?"

"N-no," Saemus stutters, his eyebrows rising into his hairline. "Mostly I have to stay hidden away and under guard all the time, in case something like this happens."

"So where were your guard today then?" Aveline growls.

He shrugs. "I left without them. My father didn't agree with me coming down here to help, so I slipped past them and made my way here."

Hawke throws his head back and laughs. Carver scowls and knows just how fake _that_ laugh is. "You're determined to be a thorn in someone's side. Good for you." Hawke slings his arm around Saemus' shoulders and starts walking him back towards the Gallows. "So it seems to me, Saemus that we've got a situation where we could help each other out, here. We need to get into the city and you need a decent guard who thinks of your needs first. We've already shown that we can defend you – well, my brother has. We slaughtered a group of thugs who thought they could fight their way into the city, but enough about that. My point is that we could be your personal guard. And we'd follow you even if your father wanted you to do something else."

Carver speeds up and elbows his brother in the side. He gestures for his ear and hisses, "Don't get too personal with him! He's the Viscount's son! That means if the city guard sees you so much as shaking his hand, they're going to cut yours off! Stop being so friendly and think!"

"I'm doing what I need to so we can get into this city," Hawke says quickly. "What would you have me do? Sit around with my thumb up my ass?"

"No, but-!" He grabs his brother by the collar as he catches Saemus looking at them and drags them out of earshot. "This is a Templar-heavy city, Brother. If you bring attention on us, they're going to notice! We can't hide Bethany when everyone's looking for us!"

Hawke sighs. "You're right." He turns back to Saemus and smiles. "So, we're not going to be able to get you back into the city safely, it seems. Will you be fine from here, serah?"

Saemus nods and tries to quickly brush more blood from his cloak. "I will. I can charter a boat into the main city within the hour to get back. The refugees here are waiting for so long because not only are the gallows isolated by water, but also because the Knight-Commander has refused to let anyone charter a boat unless they've got explicit permission. There's been too many people offering to smuggle people into the city as of late."

He shrugs to himself and looks up at the statues above them all. "I shall petition my father to let you into the city as quickly as possible and also let him know how you defended me. With luck, you'll be in the city by the day after tomorrow. Thank you for all your help everyone. Thank you, Carver."

He catches the look Bethany gives him and glowers back at her. She smiles the too-familiar falsely innocent smile.

At least they're getting into the city. That's all that matters.

**-x-X-x-**

"It's been three days already."

Bethany stirs from her sleep and sees Aveline pacing around nearby. Both her brothers are sat in front of her, Shepard on her flank and forming a protective circle around her. She smiles and glances up at Aveline as she tries to rub sleep from her eyes.

"We can't stay here forever," Aveline says, wringing her hands nervously.

Bethany knows exactly what she's thinking. Three days have passed since Saemus said he'd get them into the city. They'd spent their days since hunting through the refugee quarters for food, but people had long since stopped handing out donations. Maybe something had happened that stopped people wanting to hand it out.

At least they managed to wash the blood out of their clothes. It wasn't so much a bath as being drenched with buckets of water of questionable freshness, but it still got most of the grim away.

They need to move on, Bethany knows that. But they can't leave until they hear back from their uncle or Saemus one way or the other. What would happen if they leave and then a messenger arrives not an hour later, saying they're allowed into the city? There's also the problem of their severely light purses. They're not going to get anywhere with only a few bits between them.

Besides, Saemus should be back soon. She smiles as she remembers the way he acted and gets no end of fun tormenting Carver about it. He freaks out every time she mentions it and it only serves to make her laugh all the more. Especially when Garrett suggested Carver should _scratch his back_ to help them get into the city. She sighs to herself and leans her head against cold stone, thinks about it all and wonders just when they're going to get some news.

The familiar sight of the guard approaches them, satchel in his hand. He nods at Aveline and shares a little conversation with her. They know his name is Ewald – he seems quite happy with Aveline, Bethany's noticed. It seems he desperately wants her in the guard and is trying to pull strings to get at least her into the city. But Aveline won't have any of it, refusing to leave any of them behind.

It's strange to think the woman's like family already. Especially considering she used to be married to a Templar. Bethany would have thought she'd be enduring days upon days of sermons about how her powers were against nature itself and that she should be with others like her. Instead Aveline seems to have taken her under her wing and seeks to protect her just as much as her brothers do.

It's just… strange. She can't think of a word that sums it up better.

She sees the guard approaching them and kicks her brothers awake. They start with equal half-snore, half-grunts and are both on their feet in an instant. The guard seems surprised by it. Bethany just finds it normal.

Ewald clears his throat, reaches into his satchel and hands a piece of parchment into Hawke's hands. "We found Gamlen. He…" Ewald grimaces. Bethany's stomach drops at that alone. What could make him seem so awkward? Was their uncle dead in a ditch somewhere? Not in the city? Secretly a mage and now in the Gallows?

"Your uncle said that with your mother dead… you're not his responsibility. In his words, he doesn't have the coin to throw on orphans who should have stayed in their Blighted homeland. I am sorry." He bows his head and leaves with record speed.

Bethany's too stunned to think, let alone say anything. Her brothers tear open the letter, read it in record time and react just as she expects. Carver swears and punches the wall. Garrett just sinks to the floor, sits there numbly rubbing Shepard's head.

"Some family," he mutters and drops the letter to the floor. "We're running out of options here. If Saemus doesn't come through with his offer, we're going to have to find different means to get into the city."

"Who knows if he'll get back to us," Carver growls, rubbing his knuckles. "He looked like he was going to hide away for the rest of eternity when he left." He scowls, picks up a rock and tosses it as far as he can. It bounces near a market stall and the owners shout as him as he returns a one-handed gesture. "Tch. Some city."

"Don't be so sad," Hawke says. He leans his head against the wall and manages to grin. "I don't think Saemus would leave _you_ out here in squalor. You're his knight in shining armour, after all."

Bethany can't stop the laugh at Carver's face. She presses a hand to her mouth as she tries to hide her giggles, hands Aveline the letter when she asks for it and tries her best not to add to Carver's misery. "Be nice, Gare-bear," she says, slapping him on the shoulder.

"Bethany, _please_," Hawke mutters, rolls his eyes and holds a level stare at her. "I've got a reputation of slaughtering thugs here. I can't have it ruined by childhood nicknames. What would they think if they heard whispers of 'Gare-bear the Avenger' prowling the streets at night?"

"They might think you're an actual bear," she says with a laugh. He scoffs and turns away, still fussing Shepard. All of a sudden the mabari raises its haunches, growls and races towards the nearby stairs.

Hawke's on his feet a moment later and Aveline's already got her hand on her sword. "Company," she notes, moving herself between Bethany and whoever they are.

She scowls, gets to her feet and tries to move her way around everyone. She sees a group of people with shrouded faces led by the sole man without a hidden face. He looks old, with his thin grey hair and wrinkled face, but he has muscle enough to rival Aveline and Carver put together. She feels her stomach twinge with anxiety and feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Careful," she says and places a hand on Hawke's arm. "There's a mage with them."

He nods and moves in front of her again. She finds herself barricaded between familiarity and feels like a burden all over again. She's forced into only being able to watch as the group stops at the bottom of the stair. The leader steps forwards, looks them up and down and pulls his lips back in a sneer as he folds his arms. "So which one of you Dog-lords stole my bounty?"

She can't help but glance at Carver. She sees him tense and his chin drop to his chest. He's ashamed, upset and worried all at once. She knows he thinks himself to blame for all of this and can practically hear his mind blaming himself for whatever might happen. She squeezes his hand and tries her best to offer an encouraging smile. His scowl doesn't go, however.

Hawke's got his arm slightly raised, like he's going for his weapons. But Bethany knows he's stopping Carver from moving. It's something that her family have all these tiny gestures that seem like something else; all garnered from a lifetime of hiding apostates.

"I'm sure we don't know what you're talking about, serah," Hawke says and she can hear the smile on his face. He makes a show of shifting his weight and scratching at his beard. "Unless of course, you mean that ugly fellow we pushed off the boat. But that was for a good cause – he was in _desperate_ need of a bath."

The leader actually smiles at that. Bethany feels the knot in her stomach unwind just a little. "A jester, huh?" he mutters and shakes his head. "Well, it takes all sorts. I'm Meeran, the leader of the Red Irons."

"That's up there with the worst named groups ever," Hawke mutters instantly. "Why not the _Black Cauldrons?_ Maybe even the _Green Lanterns?"_

She hisses and kicks him in the back of the leg. He shakes it off and tries to give her a smile. Meeran scowls and points a finger at him. "Look, _boy_, I haven't come here to listen to some Dog-lord fool crack stupid jokes at me. I came here to find out who stole my bounty." He folds his arms again and smirks. "I've got reports that say you and your lot were seen leaving the alleyway where the Winters were chopped into little pieces. So one of you Blighters owes me."

She can practically see the gears turning in her brother's mind as he shrugs and folds his arms. "So what, exactly would we owe you, were we the ones who stole your kill?"

Meeran rubs his fingers and thumb together. "Coin. One of you owes me coin." He shrugs dramatically and picks a coin purse off his belt. "Of course, no one does anything for free these days. You want into the city, right? Of course you do. I can get you all in, providing whatever one of you stole my kill owns up and works off the debt. For three years."

She feels like she's been hit in the gut. Three years is far too long a time to work for someone like him. She wants to say something but she already knows what he's going to say.

"You'll get _all_ of us into the city?" Hawke says.

Meeran presses a hand over his heart. "On my mother's ashes."

"Fine," Hawke says with a shrug. "I killed them."

The knot in her stomach becomes a full blown tear. She launches at him, grabs a handful of his clothes and twists them in her hands. "Brother! What are you doing?"

She sees Carver have much the same reaction as her. But he ends up going with the insanely less subtle method of shoving their brother. "What do you think you're doing? I do something myself and you're there, stealing the credit!"

Hawke removes Bethany's hands from his collar and regains his footing in one simple movement. "Carver," he says, teeth grit and fists clenched, "the nice mercenary is offering to get us into the city. Only one of us has to pay off the debt. Now shut up and let me get you into the city."

"What, and let you claim all the credit?" Carver scoffs. "You'd never let me hear the end of it if you worked off _my_ debt." He folds his arms and glares at Meeran. "I killed them. Get my family into Kirkwall and I'll pay off the debt for you."

"Look," Meeran says, hands in the air. "I don't care who killed them. As far as I'm concerned, the vultures can feast on their corpses and shit them into the ocean. What I'm interested in is the skill of whoever killed them. I get good workers on my team, I'm happy. So sort it out amongst yourselves and I'll start greasing the wheels."

Hawke pretty much shoves Carver aside as he steps down the stairs. "I'm working it off. Get my family into the city and I'll do whatever you want for three years."

"No you won't," Carver growls. He bounces down the stairs and engages in a quick glaring match that he loses. He settles on a scowl instead. "If you're so intent on doing this, fine. But you're not doing this alone." He turns to Meeran and says, "I'm working off the debt too. Both of us work for you for a year and a half."

Bethany fights the urge to bury her face in her hands. Her brothers are always like this, fighting over everything. She remembers the last time she saw something like this – Carver's girlfriend or just _friend_ Peaches. The girl had the hugest crush on their brother and it was something Carver found no end of grief. Then of course there was the time they both signed up to be soldiers at Ostagar. They couldn't do anything without it becoming some sort of competition.

She sighs, moves down the steps and grabs them both by the ears. They yelp and try to fight her off even as she smiles at Meeran. "Excuse my brothers. We'll each work the debt off for a year. Three year's work in one year." She lets go of her brothers' ears and glares at them both. "We're family. We stick together. Isn't that what Mother and Father always taught us?"

Meeran just shrugs. "You're a shrewd haggler. Fine. As long as I'm getting workers out of it, I'm happy. So what about your red-headed friend? Is she going to join in on this nauseating display of family togetherness?"

Aveline goes to say something, but Hawke leaps back up the stairs and grabs her wrist. "Think about this, Aveline. You've already been offered a job with the city guard. You and I both know you won't like having to kill for money. Get something for yourself in the city and work everything off in a way that suits _you_. You've helped me since the ogre, so let me help you."

She shakes his hand off and hisses at him, "Damn it Hawke! You're not the only person that lost someone that day! Don't try and make me feel guilty for not losing a parent and don't try to let me allow others to incur debts on my behalf!"

"I'm incurring it on _Carver's_ behalf," he counters. "He might be an ass most of the time, but he's still my brother and I will protect him, even if I have to fight him to do so. You pay off your debts in a way you can live with. We'll pay it off in a way we can live with."

Aveline sighs and drops her head. "You're an ass, Hawke," she says, smile on her face. "A well-meaning, brilliant friend, but you're still an ass." She glances at Meeran, face as cold as steel. "I'll pay you back every coin you use in getting me into the city, even if I live on nothing but stale bread and water for a year."

He shrugs and tosses his coin pouch between his hands. "Personally, I don't care how badly you live, as long as I get my money. Eighty sovereigns a head. You each get a cot and one meal a day for the year. Get good enough and we'll reward you well. Understand?"

"Be good, get food and bed. Understood," Hawke says with a smile. Even Shepard joins in with a bark and a wag of his tail. "Insanely high price to get into the city, totally understood."

Bethany smiles as she stamps on his foot. "Ignore my brother, please."

Meeran just regards them with a flat look. "Less smart-mouth. Now sit down, shut up and wait for me to return."

"I can't believe Mother thought Gamlen would be worth seeking out," Carver mutters. "What an asshat."

"It runs in the family, apparently," Hawke says with a smile.

"Shut up."

"This year is going to be _fun_. I can tell already."

Aveline groans and cuffs Hawke on the shoulder. "I didn't think I would be saying this anytime soon Hawke, but I agree with Carver. Shut up."

Bethany sighs and turns away from them all. It's so hard to imagine Mother being from here. Even harder to imagine that she would have come back and had to beg to get back into her own city.

What would she think were she here?

_The ogre races towards them all and she freezes. What in the name of the Maker is that thing? It roars with strength enough to knock her off her feet. She rolls forwards, slashes at a darkspawn with her staff and throws lightning into a cluster of the things. She pants, weary and forces fire into existence and at the fiend. It shrugs off her attacks and charges straight past her, chasing after Mother._

_Her stomach freezes. She draws in powers that she can barely control and tries to direct them. Something foul breathes down her neck. She screams and suddenly he's there, daggers in the darkspawn's chest. He flashes her a quick grin that turns to horror as she hears the scream._

_The sounds of bones crunching fill the air and-_

Enough! She fights her tears and lets reality bleed back into her brain. They've gotten into Kirkwall now. All she can do for now is ensure she makes Mother proud.


	2. Kirkwall

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
><strong>_

_Chapter Two; Kirkwall_

**-x-X-x-**_  
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"_It doesn't matter how badly we live. The fact that we're alive and together is worth all the coin in the world to me."_

He smiles a little to himself as he remembers her words from so long ago. Would she still think the same thing now, a year after their admittance into Kirkwall? What would she have done were she here with them? Would she have joined in with the mercenaries or would their uncle have actually given a shit about their plight into the city?

He decides that it doesn't matter, one way of the other. What's done is done; the only thing we can do with our actions is make the best of them that we can.

Father used to say that a lot. He wonders if maybe he's a little insane for playing little memories of their voices in his head whenever he's worried. As long as he doesn't start talking to invisible people or begging for coin to hear the voices once more, he supposes it's all good.

Still… he can't help but wonder how truthfully Mother's words were meant as he unlocks the door to their house.

Or, more accurately, their piss-stain of a shack in Lowtown.

It has a grand total of two rooms. Thankfully one's enough for bathing and the privy, but it means all four of them are crowded into one not overly-large room. It goes without saying that they let Bethany have the bed, even though at times it looks like it may fall apart at any given notice. He and Carver sleep in blankets huddled on the floor, often with Shepard sprawled between them both as a living, furry cover.

He sighs as he steps in the door and finds the smell of rotting wood still hasn't left. Bethany's hunched over a desk, reading some ancient tome full of magic scripts he has no hope of even beginning to attempt understanding. He rubs Shepard behind the ears as the mabari trots up to him and greets him happily, tail wagging enthusiastically. Bethany smiles in his direction and pours herself back into her book a moment later, not wanting to be parted from it.

He remembers that feeling. Their place in Lothering may not have been grand, but he can recall Father's library without any effort at all. Something about mages meant that they were never happy unless they had books nearby. He supposes that may be where he's gotten the love of study from, or perhaps it was just growing up and finding the pictures in some of the racier books that made him enjoy reading.

Either way, at least he actually has some time so he can return to aimless reading now. Meeran's debt gone from above their heads, Meeran himself not gone from Kirkwall but at least hopefully hindered a little bit.

He smiles to himself and twirls a dagger in his hands. He wants to see the look on Meeran's face when Aveline and the rest of the guards raid the warehouses full of plundered goods that Meeran's been hoping to sell. It only serves him right for trying to screw them over before they left.

Bethany finally looks away from her book long enough to rub her eyes and stare at the ceiling. He follows her gaze and sees beams of rotting wood hanging above them, unsure of how long it will be before one falls down on them. Maybe taking the shack from slavers was a good thing, but he at least thought they would have kept it in better condition.

"Any luck today, Brother?" she asks, eyes still closed. He can't blame her. Looking at the sight of their hovel makes him want to close his eyes and imagine he's somewhere else too.

Preferably on a tropical island near Rivain with a harem of women to service his needs.

He stops himself thinking about that before he gets carried away. "You could say that," he says as he produces a scroll from beneath his top. "You remember Meeran getting testy about a lack of sellswords for the past few weeks?"

She nods and holds out her hand for the scroll. He hands it to her, grinning smugly as he does so. "Well it seems that the man behind it all is one Bartrand Tethras. Apparently he's planning an expedition into the Deep Roads and is paying good coin for anyone willing to join up."

"The Deep Roads," Bethany whispers and bites her lip. "Are you sure about this, Brother? We fled the darkspawn for a reason. Heading into where they live seems a bit… counterproductive."

He shrugs, but his grin doesn't fade. "Well, I figured that since they burnt down our home, we could go and do the same to them. Besides, think about this; it's going to be a few weeks long at least. If you're busy down in the Deep Roads, you won't have to worry about certain… _interested_ _parties_ searching for you."

"It always comes back to that, doesn't it?" she sighs as she buries her face in her hands. "What was the Maker thinking when He gave me magic?" She shakes her head and looks back up again. "When you say it like that, it almost makes sense."

"Everything I say makes sense," he says, rubbing his beard. He needs this to happen, but doesn't want to load the pressure onto her like that. They need coin – it all boils down to that. Saemus may have helped them own their hovel legally, but that doesn't mean they can still afford the rent. He glances round the shack and is somewhat surprised Saemus isn't here, chatting to Carver and bonding over a mutual agreement of being stuck in someone else's shadow.

"Where's Carver?" he asks and pokes a bundle of blankets on the floor with his boot. Nothing moves under there, though Shepard follows his lead and scratches at the floor, sniffs it and declares it monster-free. Hawke smiles and rubs him behind the ears once more.

"He's in the market with Saemus," Bethany says. She pushes herself up from her chair, puts the candle out and hides her book under the mattress of her bed. Hawke smiles to himself as he sees that – ever since they were little and she caught Carver reading her diary she's never trusted leaving any book nearby. Of course, the fact that he himself may have gone through one of her tomes and changed every other word to something rude has nothing to do with it. It's all Carver's fault, naturally.

"It's a wonder he's even allowed out the house," Bethany says and it takes Hawke a moment to realise she means Saemus. "After what _you_ pulled at his Naming Day, the Viscount's been keeping an eye on him a lot more, supposedly."

Hawke smiles and holds his hands up. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

She slides a hand on her hip even as one eyebrow rises to her hairline. "You hired three Orlesian courtesans, an elven prostitute and an opera-singing dwarf."

"It's a shame that the sword-eating Antivan couldn't come. Saemus would have liked that."

He can see the look on her face just before she hides it behind a hand. The bait is there and he knows she's going to be driven into asking. He bites the inside of his cheek as she sighs and peeks at him from behind his fingers. "Why couldn't the Antivan make it?"

"Shipwrecked." He grins as she just blinks at him. "You thought it was going to be something vile, didn't you?"

"Carver said you mentioned something to him about hiring a sword-eating man for the party and made consistent lewd jokes about it."

He remembers them all and can't help but laugh. The look on Saemus' face when he mentioned he'd hired a man to swallow Saemus' sword was priceless. Carver had been close to glaring him to death whilst trying not to laugh and Aveline had been within earshot, which lead to him getting clouted over the head hard enough to get a bruise.

So maybe saying it in the Viscount's Keep hadn't been the smartest thing to do. But the nobles' reactions just made it all the funnier.

"We should make our way to Hightown soon," he says, linking his hands behind his head. "My contacts said that he often leaves at high-noon between meetings. If we're lucky, we can catch him on the way and convince him to hire us."

Bethany's already collecting her cloak from her bedpost. "And if we're unlucky?" she asks, fastening it with a brooch he recognises. The sight of it twists his gut a little. Mother's brooch. He wasn't even aware Bethany had taken it from her body until he'd seen her produce it one day. He'd made the joke of knowing she was magic, but never knowing she could bring things back from a funeral pyre.

Then Carver had revealed he had Mother's betrothal band on a chain around his neck. He'd played it off with more jokes, but inside his heart felt like someone had grabbed it and turned it inside out.

He'd sold everything of his to get them onto that boat. Including everything Father had handed down to him. He still feels a flash of envy whenever he sees them and wonders why he's the one that has to give up it all.

It's silly that two little pieces of jewellery should upset him so. They have physical memories of Mother. All he has now are her words in his mind. And the occasional whine that Shepard uses which could convince Mother to do anything.

He makes a show of shrugging, like he doesn't even notice the brooch on her cloak anymore. "We'll probably end up killing people and in forced servitude for a year. Maybe we'll get lucky and this time we'll have to help smugglers."

She shakes her head at him as she shoves past him. "Sometimes Brother, I think you _want_ these things to happen."

"Well, how else would I make our lives exciting?"

**-x-X-x-**

Carver sighs to himself for what feels like the twentieth time in the past few seconds. He can see the endless stream of stalls with people peddling their wares; dwarves, elves and humans all blurring into one incoherent mess of swindlers and con-artists.

The main problem is that somehow, Saemus seems enthralled by everything people have to offer.

"This is something, isn't it?" he says, prodding at what Carver is certain is a phallic fertility statue from some Avvar tribe. He's not entirely certain what may happen if Saemus keeps poking it, but he wouldn't be entirely surprised if a bunch of Avvar barbarians suddenly appeared from the shadows.

"Put that down," Carver growls, face in a hand. He hates going anywhere near a market with Saemus. The problem isn't that the man has to see everything people sell, but more that he has the coin to buy whatever he wishes. "Who knows where that's been?"

Saemus flinches away, rubbing his fingers on his cloak. "You don't think someone would have _used_ it, do you?"

Carver drops his hand and regards him with raised eyebrows. "You complain about someone using that, when your Naming Day ended with you and the elven prostitute doing far worse?"

Saemus turns bright red in an instant, shushes him and glances around like a trapped rabbit, continuously searching for eavesdroppers. Carver just shakes his head at it all and wonders why the hell he's starting to say things that sound like something his brother would say. Just because _he_ has no shame in what he says doesn't mean Carver doesn't. He wants to get on the Viscount's good side, not leave them forever on the bad by throwing wild debauched parties.

Though, that Orlesian girl who could fit an entire first in her mouth certainly was something…

He shakes his head as Saemus wanders away from the stall and starts speaking about the Qunari again. Carver shrugs and only half-listens to most of it. He's aware the Qunari are in the city – even _blind_ beggars know that. The docks hold a whole encampment of them that just seems to be getting smaller and smaller for them by the week. They're holding out for a ship, or so they say. But any messengers who are sent to inquire about the Qunari leaving the city invariably end up returned back to the Viscount with no answers, according to Saemus.

And apparently there was one who was returned in pieces for offending the Qunari leader.

He might not hold much opinion of them either way, but Carver can't help but admire their style. He knows Bethany hates them after what the Qunari Sten did to her friend's family back in Lothering. Finding out that he even helped to defeat the Blight was like a kick to her stomach. He knows his brother doesn't care unless there's profit to be had from them, coin or otherwise.

Mostly though, Carver just wonders what they eat. No one's ever seen food moving in or out of the compound. A little part of him wouldn't be surprised if they were eating each other.

"They're actually called kossith, you know?" Saemus is saying, gesturing wildly with his hands. He always does that, Carver's noticed. Invariably it ends with him accidentally hitting someone. "The Qunari, I mean. It's their religion – they follow the Qun. The people themselves – the race, with the horns and everything – they're called kossith. It's interesting, don't you think?"

"I suppose," he mutters. He thinks his brother would find that more interesting. He's always been the one seeking out more knowledge and everything. As does Bethany. Even though he wasn't a mage, he would always join Father and her, reading through tomes and trying to understand how everything worked. Carver tried for the longest time, but he was never that into books. He didn't see the appeal of learning something you couldn't gather from physically doing so, like swordplay. That you learnt through doing, not sitting around in the dark, wearing away over a dusty bunch of over-priced pieces of parchment.

"Something's bothering you," Saemus says as he stops suddenly. Carver follows suit and focuses instead on the sky. The looming slums don't seem to be in the same world as the sky, unlike in Hightown, where places like the Viscount's Keep seem to threaten the sky's entire existence.

"You could say that," Carver grunts.

"Family?"

He snorts a laugh at that. Everything revolves around family. His and Saemus' entire friendship is based upon the fact that neither of them can really put up with their family. Saemus' father spends days worrying about political image and how that will be used against him, whilst Carver's spends theirs worrying about how anything can be used against Bethany.

He's aware that they're strangely similar, in a roundabout sort of way.

"Not entirely. We're free of Meeran now, but we're not safe. Bethany's well… you know." Saemus knows all about her. It was something they tried so hard to keep quiet until Saemus had injured himself trying to play with Carver's blade. A quick visit to doctor Bethany later and then they all realised just what they'd let him know.

Thankfully, he seems able to keep a secret. And more than that, Carver figures that Saemus' joy of having people who treat him as a person rather than simply the Viscount's son buys them a lot of leeway towards horrible secrets.

"I want us to be able to go around without worrying about it all. I'm fed up of having to always be on guard, no matter what I do. I can't be myself or do what I like just in case it all comes back on her somehow."

Saemus smiles and pats him on the shoulder. "And how do you know she doesn't feel the same way? I'm aware of what she must suffer… not knowing who to trust, just because of something you were born with."

Carver snorts and bats his hand away. "You're supposed to be on my side, you know?"

"I'm merely trying to consider both sides of the argument, friend," he says and hugs his elbows. Everything he does has elements of nobility, Carver notices. Unlike his brother and himself, who are content to slouch when they feel the need, Saemus always stands with correct posture and holds himself like every other noble in the city. The fact that he could have grown up being as pompous as that, had things been different plays on his mind.

"It's like that with the Qunari," he says, gesturing with his hands again. "No one is taking the time to actually understand them, merely calling them heretics and running screaming from them."

"One of them did slaughter my sister's best friend," Carver points out, arms folded.

"Yes, but that one also helped defeat the Blight, did he not?" Carver winces, briefly having forgotten just how much Saemus knows about the world. He wouldn't be surprised if someone told him Saemus spends all his free time just studying. "Besides, I have met one of them. He is nothing like what they say. He doesn't lie nor coddle. You're worthy of Ashaad's time or you are not."

Carver snorts, already knowing what people would say about it. Bethany would hate him for getting to know one. Aveline would warn him to keep his head about him, whilst his brother would make bad jokes about it.

He hates himself that the latter is what he ends up thinking.

"You sound like you've gotten to know this Ashaad well," he accuses.

Saemus goes bright red in an instant and chokes on his words. He turns away and carries on walking up the steps to Hightown. "Nothing like that, I assure you," he says as Carver follows. "Their religion… the Qun is strange, from what I've been able to get from him. Everything they do is the will of the Qun. Meaning careers, livelihoods… even partners are all decided by the Qun."

"Andraste's ass!" Carver breathes. "Imagine that! Not even allowed to pick who you be with?"

"Not even that," Saemus says.

"That's… unreal," Carver says, though he's still smiling at how strange it all is. To think, that someone would choose everything for someone! You sleep with this person and start a family. It is the will of the Maker. He frowns and decides that there's not many people who would be inclined to follow along with anything like that. Except maybe the ugly ones. And likely his brother would use it as a line to score more women.

"Perhaps," Saemus says with a shrug. "But is it much different to the Chantry? The Qun tells you that you will be exiled or killed for refusing to be who they tell you to be. The Chantry tells you that you will be exiled or killed for being who you actually are and not who they want you to be."

Carver frowns as he catches up to him and sees Hightown structures start to appear around them. It's like an instant change – going from sandstone hovels to sudden white marble structures that reach for the skies. In Hightown, even the buildings seek to let you know how much better than you they are. He considers it with a snort and finds himself drawn to looking at the Chantry.

"I've never heard anything like that in the Chantry though," he says.

Saemus smiles. "How often were you actually in the Chantry though?"

"Not very often," Carver concedes with a laugh, "too many Templars and too many people to hide from them. Mother brought us up Andrastian though, but I think Bethany was the only one who took it to heart, ironically enough."

"I have heard many times the arguments of my father for my choices in life," Saemus says. He slides his thumbs into his belt and looks down at the floor – a posture he only adopts when in Hightown, Carver's noticed. Perhaps he's doing it to avoid the stares of the nobles, though in all likelihood, it would be easier to avoid them were he to dress less like nobility. Nobles are funny like that, always pretending anyone dressed worse than them is invisible.

"I'm tired of bearing my father's disappointment, just as much as he is of being disappointed in me," he says, speaking at the floor. "I've heard the lectures so many times now, but if I am lost to the Maker for refusing to hate someone, for finding beauty in the-" Carver sees the face he pulls, even though Saemus isn't looking at him, "-_other_... well, perhaps the Maker is the one who is not worthy of me."

Carver shrugs as an answer. He doesn't know what to say to that. He's honestly used to being the one given orders and just rebelling against everything he's told. To have to give an answer to something he's barely given the time to consider is something he's only ever found himself having to do since he became friends with Saemus.

"Family should stick together," he says slowly. "Your father sounds like a tit, but he's probably only looking out for you. But when family fails you, if you've got decent enough friends, they're worth ten of any family you have." He doesn't know where the words come from and he's surprised enough to hear them.

_When family fails you_…

Gamlen's certainly failed them. Leaving them in the gutter and making them have to kill people to line someone else's purse for a year. Though it's not like he has any friends that are worth family, does he? Aveline's his brother's friend more than anyone's. She looks out for Bethany, he can't fault her for that, but it still feels a lot like she's sticking her oar in where she's not concerned.

Saemus seems to be blind to Carver's internal worries as he throws his head back in a laugh. "You know, it's truly good to hear people say something like that about Father. I'm usually forced to listen to people begging for his forgiveness or just trying to worm their way into his pockets. It gets old fast. Especially when they think they can befriend me merely on that idea."

Carver hopes he doesn't catch his wince. He knows that's the main reason why his brother wanted to keep Saemus as a friend. Then of course, he manages to screw even that up and offends the Viscount through just knowing Saemus. Some people just try too hard to be offended.

"My father just thinks too much about his position and what he has to lose," Saemus says, shaking his head. "Truly, you and your family have treated me more like family than my own father does."

Carver doesn't know what to say to that. Bethany would probably smile and reassure him it's no problem. His brother would make a quip about always needing more strays to add to their collection. But he honestly doesn't know what _he_ would say to that. He grunts and manages a shrug in reply. Saemus seems to understand and smiles back at him.

"I should probably head back to the Keep," Saemus says with a sigh. "Father doesn't very much like that we are friends, but he tolerates it more than my friendship with Ashaad. Sometimes I think it would be so much easier were I merely a refugee too."

"By all means, live in our pisspot of a shack," Carver says. "I'd happily live in the Keep instead of there."

"It's not that," Saemus says with a sigh. "It's merely the freedom to do what you wish. You may have no coin and need to do what you need for it, but it still seems preferable to your every movement being scrutinised and used as potential leverage against you. Perhaps the Qunari do have the right idea; you're judged on your merits, not those of your family."

Putting it like that, Carver can't help but agree. But the fact that they're Qunari values unnerves him more than a little. The fact that the brutes wander around the city like they're above the law doesn't settle well with him. He knows the horror stories of what they do to their mages and for that reason alone keeps his distance. The moment one of them knew Bethany was a mage, they'd launch a full scale attack against his family.

He's so lost in the thoughts of Qunari and mages that he doesn't notice the dirty kid bump into Saemus until it's too late. When he does, his blade is in his hands before Saemus has even realised what's happened.

Carver goes to give chase, but the kid is bowled over by four feet of mabari not two steps later. The dog sits atop the boy, panting happily and staring at Carver with happy, familiar eyes.

Carver freezes at the sight of the dog and feels his veins grow warm with anger. _Of course he'd be here, interfering as always._ "Uh, good boy," he says to the dog. Shepard throws his head back with a loud bark, pants and then growls as the kid tries to move. The kid stops instantly, goes rigid in fear and Shepard just continues to sit atop him, little bits of drool dropping onto the kid's chest.

Carver just glares at them both. He still can't believe the dog imprinted on his brother rather than him. He might have even been able to get one at Ostagar, had his brother not showed up and distracted everyone with Shepard. Once the lieutenants saw them, they decided that Carver already had a mabari, in some convoluted, roundabout way.

His scowl deepens as his brother walks up the stairs, sees him and spreads his arms out. "Brother!" he calls in over-the-top enthusiasm. "Fancy bumping into you here! Did you see Shepard? He practically sent that kid flying, didn't he?" He turns away from him and crouches down before the mabari, affectionately rubbing his cheeks. "Who's a good thief hunter? Are you? Yes you are!"

Carver just sighs and snatches the coin purse from the frightened kid's hands. He drops it back into Saemus' hands and wonders how long it's going to be before Saemus realises not to carry around a heavy purse with him.

As soon as Shepard gets off the boy, Saemus presses a few coins into the kid's hand and tells him to buy himself something to eat. Carver grunts and rolls his eyes, wondering just why the hell Saemus isn't that free with money with him. Of course, it's not like he'd accept it, on principal, but the fact that coin seems to mean so little to him annoys Carver just a bit.

"You do realise you just gave money to someone who tried to steal from you?" Hawke points out.

"He only succumbed to thievery because he has no other way of getting by," Seamus says, ever the diplomat. Carver shrugs and mentally starts to guess when Seamus' idealistic view on the world will break. "Why else would someone be forced to pick another's pocket?"

"For fun, maybe?" Hawke suggests.

Carver shakes his head even as Bethany jabs their brother in the ribs. Saemus, for his part doesn't look the least bit surprised anymore, merely brushing it off with a smile. It makes Carver think about what Saemus said and forces him to consider the possibility that they do act like a family, even if he isn't too sold on the idea. Saemus might think they're family, but Carver isn't too sure how far he'd go to protect Bethany. Family protect each other – it's the religion Father brought them up with.

It's also the reason why he doesn't like Aveline too much. Because if she protects Bethany and so does their brother, where does that leave him? His whole life has revolved around protecting his family and he realises that if someone else can do that, he effectively has no reason in life.

And that's probably what scares him the most, loathe as he would be to ever admit it.

**-x-X-x-**

"G-guardswoman!"

Saemus' stutter is funny to watch, Hawke decides. Aveline looks completely nonplussed by Saemus, ever so impartial to everything in matters of public face. He's bright red and trying desperately not to look at her as she seems to be holding back a grin.

That alone is enough to make Hawke intrigued. Aveline has the perfect poker face. Whatever's happened is enough to threaten that, which means he needs to know. Carver and Bethany look as clueless as he feels, whilst Shepard just wanders past them all and greets Aveline with doggy-kisses on her gauntlet-covered hands.

Aveline nods back at the boy. "Messere."

Seamus is still bright red, rubbing at the back of his head and apparently finds the rafters incredibly interesting. "I… uh, appreciate your discretion concerning the… incident last week."

She doesn't even blink. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're referring to, messere."

"Uh, yes. Well, uh, my thanks regardless."

She smiles at him, which only seems to make him all the more nervous. Hawke wants to fling himself at either of them just to find out what they're talking about. He catches the look Bethany gives Carver just before he walks Seamus back to the Viscount's office and knows she's told him to find out what's happened. Like a good older brother he pretends not to know they've exchanged a silent conversation and instead spreads his arms wide. "Aveline! So good to see you!"

"Hawke," she says with a nod. She doesn't even move, which he figures has to be something to do with her being on guard duty in the main hall of Viscount's Keep. Shelves of books line the walls of the hall, with benches full of nobles grousing about how long they've been waiting to see someone. Shepard tries to investigate a few of them, stopped only by Hawke calling him back. Nobles here don't seem to appreciate mabaris. It makes him miss Fereldan just a little more, where anyone who saw a mabari would instantly drop into baby-talk and spoil the dog rotten with treats and fuss.

He drops his arms and cocks his head. "That's not the reaction I thought I would get."

"Not every woman throws herself at you, weeping in hysteria," Aveline says with a slight smirk.

"Funny," Bethany says, leaning a hand on her hip. "Here I thought they would be running _away_ weeping."

Aveline grunts a laugh as Bethany smiles at him. He rolls his eyes and acts offended, even though he's silently pleased both of them seem to have finally recovered from everything. He can still remember this time only a year ago, where neither of them were eating from grief and barely even in reality.

"We're not interrupting anything, are we?" Hawke asks. He glances around and sees guards stationed all around the keep, faces stoic and still slightly unnerving. He wonders just how many of them are Templars in plain clothes, watching them all. Aveline's quick flicks of the eyes let him know just where and who they are and he subtly moves Bethany so she's out of their line of sight.

"Not really," Aveline says, shoulders drooping. That alone is enough to let Hawke know something's amiss. Aveline on guard duty and not standing firm is a cause to be worried, so he's learnt. "Maker knows I could use some more excitement around here. All I get are the patrols in the dark or guard duty in places that nothing is likely to happen."

Hawke points over his shoulder. "Hightown's just out there. I could go and seduce a few noble's wives for you?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "And how would that do anything, other than sate your debauchery?"

He smiles. "Well, when they all found out about each other, they'd start plotting against me or one another. And of course the husbands would be going crazy trying to figure out who their wives had been unfaithful with. You'd be in work for at least half a year!"

"I'd also be up to my ears in poncy Orlesian nobles complaining about the carpets in the Keep not being up to their standards." She scoffs to herself and rolls her eyes. "I hear you've been looking around for work though. Keep an eye on Bartrand. He's a slippery son of a bitch."

Bethany glances at him, arms folded across her chest. She looks enough like Mother, especially with the brooch on her cloak that he barely stops himself from wincing. "Claiming you used contacts that turn out to be Aveline? Not very mysterious, Brother."

"I'm not who he asked."

"Oh." Bethany blushes and offers a small, sheepish smile. "Easy mistake to make."

"How _do_ you know about that?" Hawke asks. He scratches his beard and tries to see any tell in her face. Predictably, there's none. "I've only just fully got the details on that today."

She smiles and leans against the wall. "Some of your contacts are my contacts, Hawke. Everybody in the Undercity has a price – one which drops dramatically when they find out they're facing jail time."

"Aveline!" Hawke gasps theatrically. "Abusing the power of the guard! How could you!"

"Shut it, you ass!" she says, but she laughs anyway. "Anyhow, I owe you for that tip you gave me about Meeran's warehouses. It just so happens that I've come across some information that I could use your help with."

He crosses his arms and nods. "Do I get many details? Or is this another cloak-and-dagger mission?"

"An ambush near Sundermount," she says, spreading her palms. "My contacts have been complaining about a lack of meat and judging by the whispers, something's going to happen there. I can alert the guard, if you're truly not interested, but there should be good coin if you help."

He feels his eyes twinkle. More coin is always good. It's not as if they're doing so well they can turn away work. He makes a show of being put out, but both of them know he's going to accept and help her. Hell, he knows he'd do it for free, if need be. She's practically family and after everything they went through to get to Kirkwall, she may as well be.

"When?"

He doesn't miss the tiny smile that crosses her face. "Let me get more information and I'll let you know when I know. My best guess is about a week from now."

"That works out well, regardless," he says. "I still need to deliver that amulet to the Dalish." He touches the spot on his armour where he knows the amulet sits behind. Even now, a year on, it still throbs with his every heartbeat. His nose has stopped throbbing in tandem with it, thankfully, but that doesn't mean he's free.

The continual whispers in the Fade make sure he'll never be able to forget his end of the bargain.

"Very well," she says with a nod. "I'll let you know when I need you and I'll accompany you along to the Dalish. It's the least I can do."

He shrugs and tells her it's nothing. He sees Carver returning out of the corner of his eye, annoyance rolling off him in waves. Probably from dealing with either the Viscount or the Seneschal. He's pretty sure being a knob is in the job description for both of them. Bethany sees Carver and politely excuses herself to go speak to him. Whether she's going to calm him down or just find out what he knows, either way Hawke knows that she's the only one that'll be able to talk some sense through his thick skull.

"Hawke," Aveline says suddenly and catches his wrist. He turns to her as she lets his wrist drop and knows the conversation that's about to happen. "How are you coping?"

It's a familiar dance, this conversation. Every week he's made sure to visit her, just to see how she's doing. Every week they end up speaking about how they're coping. Or more, he tells her about how he's coping. He asks her about her life, but she always says that her grief is her burden alone to share. If she wasn't so intent on helping him, he'd call her out on how nosy she was being.

He shrugs and feels the weight on his shoulders increase from the question alone. He glances to make sure neither of his siblings can see him before he visibly sags and leans against a marble column. "Honestly? I have no idea. We're free of Meeran, that's good. But we're living in a shack, Carver and I are sleeping on the floor and money's tight. I don't want to go into the Deep Roads. I'm not a fool. But it's paying well and it's a chance to escape the city for a few weeks."

"Have you thought about moving elsewhere?"

The question surprises him. He doesn't think he's heard Aveline suggest it even once in the past year. His head snaps up at her and she shrugs a tiny fraction. "You're free of your debt and can go anywhere you like. You needn't feel like you're tied to Kirkwall on my account. I've made my life here and if you want to move on, you shouldn't let me stop you."

He considers it, scratching Shepard's head as he does so. "Honestly, I'm not certain about anything anymore. Fereldan's pretty much a no-go considering everything we had there was destroyed. We have almost nothing here, but it's still more than we'd have elsewhere. But more than that… there's_… personal_ reasons keeping me here."

She nods like she understands instantly. "Your uncle."

He blinks in surprise. "You read me too easily sometimes. And yes, Gamlen." He still can't say the name without frowning. "Mother put all her trust in him and he abandoned us. I don't think it'd be anything good to Mother's memory if we just ignored him and didn't find out why. I just feel like I owe it to Mother to hold together what little family we have left."

"Don't let anyone ever tell you you're selfish," Aveline says with a smile. "Though keep in mind that you won't be able to help your family from the inside of a prison cell. The Viscount's still not happy about Saemus' Naming Day."

He tries his best to keep a straight face. "I would like it known I had nothing to do with Orlesians, elves or dwarves."

"And I take it you had nothing to do with the strippers either?"

"Of course not!"

"_Right_."

He smiles and spreads his hands out in the space between them. "Aveline. Do you honestly think I would do _any_ of that and risk offending the Viscount?"

She folds her arms and glares at him. "You don't want an answer to that, Hawke."

"I suppose not," he concedes, grinning regardless. He sees his siblings returning towards them and bows his head in a show of formal business. "Until next week, guardswoman."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Until next week, Hawke."

He grins at her and finds Shepard pawing near the bookcases. He smiles at the dog, makes a show of showering him with attention and finds exactly what he's looking for in the shelves. He's outside without anyone the wiser and flicking through musty-smelling pages when Bethany and Carver join him.

Bethany's the one to lift the book from his hands and look it over. "_Basic entropy?_" She hands it back to him, confusion clear on her face. "Brother, where did you get this?"

He shrugs and continues to flick lazily through pages. "It's strange, don't you think? That somewhere like this would have something like this so clearly on display. Really I was doing them a favour by removing it."

"Brother!" Bethany admonishes him, slapping his shoulder. "You didn't take it from in there! Really! What are you thinking?"

He just smiles and slides it into a pocket in his cloak. "Where do you think I've been getting all my books from? They're expensive, you know."

"Brilliant," Carver growls and throws his hands into the air. "Not only do you offend the Viscount by messing with Seamus' Naming Day, but you steal books from the Keep!"

"Well, it was either from there or the Gallows," he replies shamelessly. "Unfortunately, it's rather hard to sneak into the latter and run away with books. Mages are strangely possessive about books."

Bethany's only reply is a glare. He smiles back at her and guides them towards the Merchant's Guild headquarters in Hightown. Large stone statues of dwarves line the streets nearby and the houses are lined with extravagant arcs and designs. Hawke's heard of tales about Orzammar and wonders if everything the dwarves build is amazing and a feat of masonry.

He shrugs to himself and scans the crowd. He finds Bartrand easily – even had he not gained a description of the dwarf, the fact he's the only one in fine clothes singles him out.

"That's our man," he says, pointing at Bartrand. They move to him as quickly as they can, but he seems intent on avoiding them. "Bartrand Tethras?" he calls out.

The dwarf turns around, glares at them and carries on walking. "Sod off humans. I've got better things to do now than listen to your kind."

"But we haven't even spoken yet," Hawke says quickly. "We could be offering you treasure maps. Or even a way to stop you from falling into the sky."

Bartrand stops a moment, shudders and then carries on. Hawke curses and stalks after him once more. "You must all be sun-touched!" the dwarf screams at them. "I don't need any workers on this expedition! Everyone in Kirkwall wants to be my best friend right now! If you're so intent on protecting everything from darkspawn, become a sodding Grey Warden!"

He stalks into the large structure of the merchant's guild, wooden door slamming shut behind him. Hawke just stares at the door for a long moment, genuinely lost for words. He can practically hear Bethany's defeat and Carver's smugness behind him. He curses everything he can think of and wonders why one dwarf has to be the only thing between them and protecting Bethany for good.

Shepard whines at the door, pawing at it fruitlessly. Eventually he just gives up, cocks a leg and lets the dwarves know what he thinks of them. Hawke can only laugh at that. At least something good has come of it all.

Behind him he hears Bethany gasp and Carver curse. He whirls around, daggers drawn and finds Carver chasing after a dirty beggar with red hair. He's barely taken a step before there's a _thump_ and the boy's pinned to the wall behind him by an arrow in the shoulder.

Carver looks just as confused as Hawke feels. A dwarf in a rich velvet coat strides up to the squirming boy and tilts his head to meet his face.

"You've got some nerve to try that outside the Merchant's guild. If the Coterie caught you, they'd have your hands right now." He holds his hand out and waits for the boy to hand him the coin pouch. When he does, the dwarf nods and smacks him in the face. "There's a good boy. Now if you're going to rob anyone in Hightown, make sure it's the pompous nobles who shit coin. Got that? Good." He plucks the arrow from the boy's shoulder and nods towards Lowtown. "Now get going before I change my mind."

The boy runs away, clutching his bleeding shoulder without a moment's pause. The dwarf strolls from him to Hawke leisurely, tossing the coin pouch between his hands. "Yours, I presume?" he says, tossing it at Carver.

He catches it as Hawke snorts and raises an eyebrow. "I didn't think knights in shining armour were usually so small. Or had as much chest hair."

The dwarf throws his head back and a genuine laugh comes forth. "What can I say? Some of us are just cursed to be beautiful," he says, running a hand across his chest. His coat is open enough to display as much chest as a cheap whore does. Hawke can only smile as the dwarf spins the crossbow bolt between his fingers. "The name's Varric Tethras. And you, my friend, need no introduction."

"Really?" Hawke says, snorting.

"Of course! The talk of baby Dumar's Naming Day isn't far from anyone's minds these days!"

He can't help but smile at that. He hears Bethany try not to laugh and a displeased grunt from Carver. It figures. He can't think of anything that would make Carver genuinely happy. Apart from maybe a skilled blood mage and mind control.

Hawke shrugs. "I still maintain that was all a happy coincidence."

Varric laughs. "That may be. But the name Hawke is well known in the right circles. Seems you three are a force to be reckoned with."

"How nice," Bethany mutters, "so not only do I scare people with the Maker's gifts, but now apparently I have a reputation that goes with it."

"Don't complain," Carver growls at her, "fear's a good thing. It's something that we're known in this city."

"And it's also something we should try to _avoid_," Hawke points out.

"Which is a good point, if any," Varric says. "Your secrets are your own, but infamy alerts the attention of all. There's only so far a friend in the guard can go." Hawke feels genuine surprise cloud his face and the dwarf chuckles once more. "I have contacts everywhere, my friend. Nothing happens in Kirkwall without me finding out about it."

Hawke sighs, but his hands are just above his daggers. "Is this the part where you offer us work or try to blackmail us and we kill you?"

Varric just smiles. "If I wanted to do either, I would have waited until you'd chased the thief and exhausted yourselves. No, I have something else in mind. You've been speaking to my brother, have you not? Bartrand may be a lot of things, but unfortunately stubborn as a bronto happens to be one of them."

"My sympathies," Hawke says with a grin. "So are you the smart brother then?"

"But of course." He stops twirling the arrow and slides it through his belt. "Now, I came here to talk business and talk business I shall. Bartrand is broke. He's sunk every last coin he had into this expedition and it's going nowhere."

Hawke feels his gut sink. That's effectively another plan down the drain.

"However," Varric says quickly, "this is where you come in. Bartrand is too stubborn and greedy to admit this, but what we need is a partner. Fifty sovereigns and my word and you'll be a fully-fledged partner in the expedition; we'll split the profits evenly and you'll be richer than you ever dreamed."

He feels his stomach flutter at that. Richer than he ever dreamed? He can see Bethany never having to worry about Templar scrutiny and considers selling his soul for that alone. The only thing that brings him crashing back down is the extortionate price, which his brother is quick to point out.

"There's plenty of jobs in Kirkwall, should you know where to look," Varric tells Carver. He smiles, grabs his bolt again and continues spinning it. "Put aside some from each and you'll have fifty sovereigns in no time."

"You're willing to trust us as partners?" Bethany asks. Hawke can hear the concern in her voice. He feels it too. A random business offer like this does seem too good to be true.

Still, the dwarf seems up front about everything. "You're capable, I know that already. The tales in the underworld speak of nothing but fear where you and your brothers are concerned. I myself am no pushover on the battlefield either. And I owe it all to Bianca."

Hawke can't stop himself. "Bianca?"

Varric smiles and gestures to the crossbow on his back. "She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Hawke laughs genuinely for what feels like the first time in a long time. "I'm honestly seething with envy." He can't stop smiling at the dwarf and considers it all. "And you're sure they'll be more in the Deep Roads than dust and darkspawn?"

"Bartrand's far too tight to invest anything in something he doesn't think will succeed. And I wouldn't be caught dead in the Deep Roads unless there was real profit to be had." He smiles, all teeth and somehow a smile that makes him seem to know so much more than he's letting on. Hawke's tempted to join up with him just to find out how much he knows about everything. "So how about it, Hawke? You don't have much else planned for today, do you?"

"Well, I _was_ thinking about taking over Thedas and installing myself as its new Lord Ruler, but I suppose that can wait for now."

"Ah, see that's a shame," Varric says, "it'd be an amazing tale of the lowly refugee fighting against the wicked ways of the corrupt Divine, only for the twist to come; he's secretly seeking to take over the entire world!"

"They'll never see it coming," Hawke declares.

"I suppose not," Varric says with a laugh. "Consider my offer, serah Hawke. I'll be in the Hanged Man – come there before dusk and we'll talk business. If I don't see you before the night's out, then I'll take that as a no and seek business elsewhere."

"This all seems a little bit too coincidental," Carver mutters as Varric walks off. "How often do chances like this just happen to walk up to you in the street? I'd wager he paid that thief to rob us."

Hawke scratches at his beard as he watches the dwarf walk off. He struts with a sense of confidence that isn't quite arrogance and is more than experience. There's something about the dwarf that he's not revealing outright, but he seems trustworthy enough – for now.

Besides, if he's true to his word about getting them work, perhaps it won't all be for nothing anyhow. Worst case; they do a few jobs, he tries to turn on them and they flee Kirkwall. Best case; enough money to make sure the Templars never look at Bethany again.

That alone is enough for him to meet the dwarf. However, the problem still remains that Carver could be right, as strange as it is to even consider such a thing.

"It's this or working for that shady-looking elf," Hawke says, voice just louder than a whisper. "I don't trust the looks of that Athenril. She's good as a contact, but as a work partner she seems likely to stab you the instant it looks like you're about to turn your back." He shakes his head and frowns as Varric disappears behind the large stone buildings of the Merchant's guild.

"I'll meet him later, just to see if he is true to his word," he decides. "If not; no loss. If he is, then we've found a way to make some coin for ourselves."

"But… the Deep Roads?" Bethany mumbles as she plays with her sleeves. "Are you certain that's wise, Brother?"

"She's right, you know," Carver says.

_Great, they're agreeing with each other. _Hawke stops himself from rolling his eyes. Once those two agree on something, nothing short of a Blight will force them to see another way around things. He knows this from experience, sadly enough.

"I want to make sure we're out of reach as much as you do, Brother, but it seems foolish going down there just for coin. You saw Ostagar. You saw how unprepared we were for darkspawn then." Carver folds his arms and shakes his head. "I want to kill the bastards as much as the next Fereldan for what they did to us, but I don't want to put Bethany at risk in doing so."

He's surprised at that. Carver's usually the first to leap into action, damn the consequences and wait for the end result. Something's changed about him. He's actually starting to think before leaping into battle. Apparently.

He knows why, but he doesn't want to admit it to himself. The pain is still fresh in his heart, even a year on.

"I'll find a way to make sure we're all safe, Carver. Trust me on that."

He sees the unease in his brother's face; the hope in his sister's. Shepard – quiet all the while – just sits up at him, loyalty personified. He doesn't know whether to feel relieved or worried in the unwavering loyalty. The more hopes he deals with, the harder he damages everyone when he fails.

And try as he might to convince himself otherwise, he knows that Mother's death won't be the last monumental failure he blames himself for.

**-x-X-x-**

"You, my insanely tall friend, drink like a dwarf!"

"And you, my pint-sized drinking buddy, are a credit to your drunken ancestors!"

Bethany sighs and rolls her eyes at them both. Her eldest brother and the dwarf, chatting happily as if they've known each other for their entire lives. She's certain that people around them are just avoiding them – the last three people to even look their way were reduced to weeping wrecks through snarky comments alone.

She shrugs to herself and hides herself a little more in her corner. She can see the entire room from where she sits; it's why she chose to sit there. Carver's by her side and trying hard to keep up with their brother and Varric – failing completely, naturally – and seems like he's going to need carrying home at some point. She doesn't quite understand how someone as big as Carver would be reduced to such a drunken wreck so quickly, but she suspects it has something to do with the countless fingers of whiskey Varric and Garrett have been sneaking into Carver's drink.

She makes sure to keep her pint close to hand, even if she knows they won't try it with her. Of course, it's not likely that she'll get stone-drunk and start shooting fire indiscriminately out of her hands, but she doesn't want to take the risk.

More than that; she'd look out of place not drinking in a place like this. It's full of drunks, stinks like stale vomit and ale and could do with more light.

Or perhaps not, she decides when she hears something squeak nearby. Maybe the sparse amount of torches is a stroke of genius; to stop people from seeing just how dirty the place is. Either way, Shepard hears it too and growls at the walls, ears pinned back to his skull. Her brother shouts the barkeep to find out the going rate on killing their rat problem.

Apparently killing them nets the person a free drink.

She's not certain she'd want to drink anything they'd serve for free in here, but Shepard doesn't seem to mind. As soon as he's told he's allowed to hunt them, he's a blur of speed and has one in his mouth. It squeaks, little shrill, high-pitched whines as Shepard shakes it violently and finally kills it.

She shrinks back a little as she sees people looking at the noise. Noise means attention. Attention means bad things.

At least she doesn't stand out by not drinking. She can still hear Father's voice in her head whenever she visits anywhere.

_Rule four of being an apostate; make sure wherever you are, you always blend in._

She hasn't managed it to the levels of Garrett, who seems able to be the centre of attention one moment and then able to disappear unnoticed amongst a sea of faces the next, but she does it well enough that not many look her way.

She scans the crowd by habit and instinct alone. Drunks, drunks and yet more drunks. Three members of the Carta, one merc that ran with Meeran once and a Templar snitch hiding in the corner. She's seen him before, learning as much as he can about anyone and reporting it to the Templars. He shakes with tell-tale signs of lyrium-addiction and she sees him wringing his hands, desperate for more information to please his masters.

She takes a small sip of her drink and tries not to grimace at the taste. _Rule five of being an apostate; know everyone. Remember the Templars and their spies. Learn their faces._

She supposes that most mages inside the Circle wouldn't be putting their talents to the same uses as her. They'd be using their smarts to learn new spells and improve upon magical theory, not diving their time between that and learning faces of people in such detail that she can draw them with her eyes shut. It makes her wonder just how it would be to dedicate herself to learning completely, rather than spending her time looking over her shoulder for gifts – curses even – that the Maker gave her.

"That man's looking at you."

She glances over at Carver. His arm is on the table, his head leaning on that. Yet even though he's not facing her, she can feel the glare he's giving to a man on the other side of the room. He's old, with receding hair and dresses like he doesn't have two coins to spare, but she's not exactly unused to the attention. She knows that had she been born a noble, she would have likely had suitors lining up at the door. Father often said as much all the time. Garrett used to call her Heartbreaker all the time when they lived in Lothering, simply because she caught the eye of a few boys her age and never spared them any attention back.

She'd gladly give up all her magic on the spot to even begin being able to talk to anyone with something like that in mind. But what was the point in having looks when you weren't allowed to become close with someone, just in case they found out you were a mage? One small slip and the Templars would come and take her head.

"Ignore him," she says as gently as she can. In about two minutes he'll be back to leering at one of the barmaids, or even going outside to hire one of the local whores.

"He's _looking_ at you," Carver growls this time, pushing himself up. "I'm going to rip out his eyeballs if he looks at you again!"

"Carver, please!" she pleads and grabs his arm. She doesn't want to make a scene. She appreciates the way he guards her, she really does. But she's not a kid subject to the leering gaze of criminals. She's a woman now and that means attracting attention. It's strange how her brothers can spend so much time with their eyes down women's blouses, yet the moment a man looks at her, they're ready to tear his face off.

Strange, endearing, but mostly terrifying – just because she knows they actually _would,_ if the circumstances called for it.

"Don't attract attention!" she hisses into his ear. He gets the message instantly and calms, just a little. She can still feel how tense he is, but knows he's not going to do anything. Carver may be a lot of things, but she knows he still follows Father's rules like they were the words of the Maker himself.

"Don't worry about him, Junior," Varric says with a smirk. He leans back in his chair, stubby feet on the table and nods in the man's direction. "He can't do more than look anyway. He cheated on his wife with her sister, so she made him a eunuch."

She catches the tiny shudder that passes through both her brothers and tries not to smile. Varric catches her eye and winks back at her, smirk widening across his face. She finds that she can't fight her smile any longer.

_Story teller indeed._

"If anything Sunshine, I'd say it'd be a Templar that catches your eye." Varric smiles as her eyes widen, his fingers linking together over his chest. "That is, after all, how all the best tales go. The guardsmen and the thief, the noblewoman and the pauper, the fireballer and the fire-hater…"

"I don't think so, somehow," she says with a dismissive wave. She knows the Templars by sight and feels nothing but soul-shattering fear when she sees them. Love is so far out of the question it doesn't even register in her emotions.

"Oh, we don't need to worry about that," Hawke says, smiling into his pint. "Bethany and I discussed this a long time ago. She has a plan; apparently it involves marrying a rich noble then killing him off and taking all his coin for herself."

She manages to make a shocked sound as Varric throws back his head in a laugh. "That old tale, huh?" He grins at her. "The deadly seductress? I'll be keeping my eye on you Sunshine; I _am_ rich and irresistible, after all."

"So rich you're turning to _us_ to become partners on your expedition."

He smiles back at her. "I like you, Sunshine. You're all charm to slice through their defences, then you go straight for the heart. You Hawkes are all alike, I'll say that much."

She sees the way her brother's meet each other's gazes and then look away again quickly, disbelief clear on their faces. Perhaps they are. They all used to get along so much more, she remembers that much. About the time her magic first started to show, Father started spending more time with her. Then Garrett joined in and suddenly, there wasn't anywhere for Carver anymore. It was almost like her magic had ruined the relationship they all once shared.

She sighs and looks at her hands. As if her magic wasn't damaging enough to her, but it manages to rip her family apart too. She can see why people fear it so much; the Templars are but the physical threat – magic itself is the noose that constantly tightens around her neck.

Everything about magic annoys her. It was such a blessing for them when they were running from the darkspawn. The fact that she could summon firestorms down on everything was their key to victory at the time. It felt like she was a songbird; trapped her entire life and in that moment, finally set free and allowed to sing.

Then Mother died and she was stuffed back in the cage, not to use her magic again.

She wonders just what it would be like, to live without it. Or more often; what it would be like to experience that freedom all the time.

But she can't, because the Circle has to be bad. That's the only reason why Father would have ran, surely. That must be why countless mages are so afraid to go anywhere near it. The fear of becoming Tranquil – losing all her emotions, her dreams, _herself_… it's enough to keep her from even considering anything.

It would be nice though, to be somewhere in which she wasn't considered demon-incarnate just for her gifts. But her brothers have spent their entire lives protecting her, just to make sure she's free.

Free to roam around inside her cage.

She sighs to herself and drains half her pint in one. She hears Varric cheer and her brothers say something, but it's all lost to her. Her brothers have spent their lives protecting her and she's truly grateful. It'd destroy them both if she ever got sent to a Circle.

So even if she might have more freedom in that cage, she'll stay with the one she already has. She can't tear apart her family – it is rule six, after all.

_Rule six of being an apostate – family stick together. No matter what, look out for each other. Even if you hurt, protecting family is the most important thing in the world._

Except they all failed at that with Mother, didn't they? She sees the way her brothers cling to her, like she's the last thing left they have worth living for. Their rivalry against each other stops them from seeing that they should look out for each other all the time too.

So she continues to play the defenceless victim whilst making sure she can keep them both together.

Because she knows that without someone to look out for, neither of them would be able to live a normal life.


	3. The Healer

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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_Chapter Three: The Healer  
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**-x-X-x-**_  
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"_When I was young, there was a tavern called the Hanged Man. Terrible place; it stank, it was damp and the drink was the worst swill you could ever hope to grace your tongue._

"_Yet somehow, it always drew you back, like the place itself was magic."_

That's what Father had said, hadn't he? All those years ago, when Hawke had asked him about the illusive Kirkwall and if he liked anywhere the place had to offer.

Now he's here for himself, he can't help but agree with the man. His nose crinkles up as the smell of stale piss and vomit washes over him like a heat wave, yet it's somehow become familiar and welcoming. He sees Norah; the barmaid with the eternal scowl and a face like a slapped behind. She greets them with a sneer, turns away and slams a mug of ale down on the table closest to the door. The man sat there mumbles a short thanks, too drunk already to lift his head and sit up straight, despite it not even being noon.

He waves Nora for a drink, smiles at her and collapses down in a chair nearby the fire, feeling half dead and certain he looks far worse. He's still picking fluffy white feathers out of his clothes as Nora drops his mug down on the table, sneers at him until he pays her and then saunters off to greet someone else with misery.

"Hawke!" Varric shouts from round the corner.

Hawke looks up, smiles and drains a good quarter of his mug before he sets it down again and continues picking feathers from his clothes. "Never accept any jobs from farmers related to mages," he warns.

"I'm sensing a story here." Varric gestures for him to follow and leads them into Varric's room in the Hanged Man. It's large enough to fit at least three ogres, lying down and even has a long dining table, empty and waiting for guests. Varric gestures to a worn red armchair and slides himself onto a black one opposite, folds one leg over his knee and knits his fingers together. "So, do tell Hawke. What craziness have you gotten into this time and where was my invite?"

"Chickens," Hawke says, as if that explains everything. "Blight-damned _chickens_." He shakes his head and takes another swig of his ale. "I took a job from a fellow in Lowtown; seemed reasonable enough, paid half upfront too. He said there were a number of animals that needed culling in his cousin's farm. _Brilliant_, I thought, took it and hoped for a few rabbits to hunt so we could take them home and use them for food for a number of days. Only, it turns out, the owner of the farm was a mage who liked practicing magic out there, in the middle of the woods.

"Long story short," he says, taking another drink and spilling ale down his beard, "the Veil became thin there. And lo and behold, demons came forth and destroyed everything. By the time we got there, only the chickens were left."

Varric leans back in his chair, palpably interested and confused. "Well, that doesn't seem so bad…"

"The chickens were possessed by rage demons."

Hawke smiles as half of Varric's drink pours out of his nose and a quarter out of his mouth. The other quarter he assumes has to be currently lodged in the dwarf's throat and choking him to death. Varric thumps his own chest a number of times, half laughing and half choking until he finally gulps down a large breath of air.

"Maker's _breath_ Hawke!" Varric shouts. "You could at least warn a fellow when you're about to say something like that! How do chickens even get possessed by demons anyhow?"

"Hell if I know," he says, shrugging. "I heard stories about a mouser in the Tower back in Fereldan; apparently that got possessed by a demon one day and killed a few Templars. Then again, it's not as if the Veil was very strong there, either."

"Shit, Hawke," Varric says, reaching for his drink and taking small sips this time. "How do these things even happen to you?"

"Maybe the Maker has a sense of humour? An evil one." He sighs and slouches back in the chair, stretching his legs until they nearly touch Varric's chair. "I took Bethany and Carver along – Shepard came too, naturally. We bumped into Aveline on the way and she offered to come with – I figured you wouldn't want to come, what with the cows about twice your size and all."

"You're a riot," Varric says, though his grin betrays him.

"I know. But anyway, they've all gone home now – Shepard ate what remained of the chickens and is happy about that whilst Carver and Aveline got covered in guts and gore aplenty. Bethany's clothes got a new hole torn through them by a demon, so while Carver's returned to wash up, she's trying her best to save her favourite cloak. Shepard's with them because he's decided it's currently bed time. Nothing in Kirkwall is in anyway normal, is it, Varric?"

"Not when it concerns you, Hawke," Varric says, laughing. He stops slowly, swaps his legs around and takes another swig of his drink. "I have some news that may interest you though. My contacts tell me that we may have a way to get hold of some maps of the Deep Roads."

"Oh?" Hawke grunts, raising an eyebrow. He's heard many tales about the Deep Roads as of late; people claiming that now the 'spawn have ran from there, people can run in and plunder until their hearts are content. Of course, most of them come back in a small pot, but he's a little hopeful that their planned expedition won't end up that way.

"There's a Grey Warden in town, it appears," Varric says conspiringly. "Just got in off the boat maybe a week ago and he's set up a free clinic in Darktown, or so the rumours go. No one's talking though – not even the usual snitches. It seems they're either incredibly loyal to this guy or just waiting for a free healing whenever they need it."

"Could be either," Hawke muses, scratching at his beard. "But if they're that enamoured with him and his healing, it means things could get ugly if we start asking the wrong questions to the wrong people. Or even the right ones. You have no leads at all?"

"I do have one," Varric says. He reaches over his shoulder, retrieves Bianca from behind and starts checking all her parts are in working order with methodical, speedy precision. "That Fereldan shop a few streets over? The one that's helping refuges find work and shelter? The owner, Lirene should be able to tell us something, at least."

"Alright," Hawke sighs and drains what remains of his drink. "Let's pay a visit to her and see if she'll be willing to talk to us. If not, we'll grab Bethany and Carver on the way back and head into Darktown to look for him ourselves."

"Alright Hawke, but let me warn you; Darktown's been seeing a lot more of the Carta these days. Bianca's getting twitchy just thinking about that place."

"Who doesn't?"

Varric laughs. "That's a good point, my friend. Come on; let's go see what we can gather from these people."

**-x-X-x-**

Bethany's certain the Maker has to have a warped sense of humour. First He sends darkspawn and then a Templar to Lothering and now she's trapped within the City of Chains itself, hovering near the Gallows and fighting rage demon-possessed chickens less than a mile away from Kirkwall's borders.

She sighs to herself as she holds her cloak up to the light and inspects her handiwork. If it's dark, then maybe people won't notice that her patches are just a shade darker than the cloak itself. She drops the cloak into her lap, sighs once more and rubs her eyelids wearily. She remembers the days in which they actually had coin enough to buy matching fabrics to repair their clothes, rather than scraping the barrel for the cheapest cloth available. She tells herself that soon, perhaps after this stupid business with the Deep Roads is over, she'll be able to live a life of luxury, free from Templar scrutiny and live her life without constantly looking over her shoulder.

Shepard huffs from across the room, almost like he's snorting at the absurdity of her thoughts. She glances at the mabari, curled up on her bed and half-considers tipping him out of the bed and selfishly laying across it. However, the moment he opens his eyes and sees her watching him, he rolls onto his back, paws dangling in the air. She rolls her eyes at him and looks back to her patchwork, silently wondering just how he manages to get his own way with nothing more than a few cute looks.

She hears Carver whining about demon guts from the other room and stops herself from scooping up those he left on the floor and throwing them at him. Instead she pokes them with the toe of her boot and kicks them out of the door and into the streets of Kirkwall. She's half convinced her brothers have no brain cells between them to put towards housework and would honestly think blood magic was at work if she ever saw them cleaning.

Outside the door she sees Hawke and Varric down the street, walking towards the house and chatting merrily. She watches as Shepard's ears shoot up into the air and he leaps off the bed, barking like an excited puppy as he races out of the door to greet Hawke.

She smiles to herself, turns into the house and tries to make it look at least a little bit presentable for when Varric turns up. They never really had guests when they were growing up, but she remembers Mother always telling her to keep a clean house, should the day ever come when she had a house and husband of her own.

Of course, that was Mother's view on life; raised as a noble's daughter, after all. Bethany often wondered how her and her mother were actually related, considering she was more than happy to go out with everyone else, get covered in mud and hunt game for food. Her brothers still protect her like she's Andraste herself, but at least they let her come out and pull her weight towards everything – even if it does occasionally mean fireballing thugs or just generally being thrust into a fight-for-her-life scenario.

"Carver!" she shouts as she gingerly removes what she's certain is more mould than cheese from a plate. "Varric and our brother are coming – get ready! I think we're heading off out again!"

She hears him grumbling from the next room, but she knows it's mostly all for show. Carver enjoys getting out of the house – he feels as caged as she does, trapped in this little hovel and not being able to draw much attention towards themselves. She knows he's certain he could flourish, be it as Saemus' personal guard or in any form of combat, yet he still stays by her side, forever protecting her. So she endures the grumbles with a smile, knowing that he enjoys the small scrapes they get into, just because it means that he's there, protecting her, instead of abandoning her for his own hopes and dreams.

Hawke steps into their house with a wide grin, Shepard trotting happily at his heels. Varric slinks in behind them, sees Bethany and gives a low, showy bow. She rolls her eyes at him and throws a bundle of string at him for his bravado. To his credit, he catches it out of the air, spins it in his palm and then tosses it back to her, smiling all the while.

"We're going to see a healer," he brother announces, still grinning.

"Okay?" she says uncertainly. She can't _see_ any injuries on them, unless he's taken a hit to the head or drunk too many drinks, which _would_ explain the slightly-insane grin he's wearing. "Because?"

"He's a former Grey Warden," Varric supplies for her. "I always thought that once you were a warden, you were one for life, but apparently not, if this guy's anything to go by."

"His name is Anders," her brother tells her. "And he's a _healer_."

She raises an eyebrow at that. An actual apostate healer, living here in Kirkwall? She's not entirely sure just how she feels about that. Rule three of being an apostate, after all, is never to trust another apostate. Most will turn you in if it means they get a chance at freedom, Father had always said. And although he always told her the Templars lied about a lot of things, the majority of apostates who hated the circle were often maleficarum or abominations. It was why he made her fear it, rather than hate it. Fear drove her to stay away from it; to never give into their stereotypes just through the paranoia of what they'd do to her. Hate, Father had always said, would drive a mage down the path the Templars always accused them of.

"Bloody hell," Carver mutters as he steps into the room. Water still drips from his hair but he's otherwise dressed, though still tying a leather belt around his waist. "We have to go see one of _them_, really? What makes you think he doesn't have the Templars already watching his every move?"

"Because I always deal in good information," Varric says, smiling at them. Shepard barks enthusiastically and Varric manages a grin, though he looks a little uncertain as the mabari looks up at him.

Bethany can understand why – Shepard's only a few inches shorter than Varric, after all. The dwarf looks at the dog with an uncertain expression, though finally relents and pats him on the head. Shepard barks happily and graces Varric's face with a slobbery kiss, which the dwarf jokingly laughs off as the only type of kisses Bianca will allow him to have.

"It's in Darktown," Hawke tells them, casually sliding a dagger up his sleeve. He pulls tight the cords around his arms and makes sure the dagger won't slide loose before he looks back up at them. "Look for the single lit lantern, apparently. Though supposedly the Carta's gotten worse down there, so we're going to be in for a few fights here and there."

"Brilliant," Carver mumbles as he winds his arms. "Can we not go anywhere without them leaping from rooftops and trying to kill us."

"You can't say you don't enjoy the action," Bethany points out. Carver turns to her with a frown, but she just smiles until he looks away again. "You're only ever happy when you're in the middle of combat."

"Just like a murderer," Hawke supplies, completely at the wrong time. Bethany buries her head in a hand as Carver stiffens and another argument breaks out between the both of them. Shepard cocks his head, whines and plods over to Bethany, pawing at the hem of her dress. She nods, throws on her cloak and follows him out of the house, aware that Varric's only a step behind her.

"They're your family Sunshine, so I've got to ask… are they always like this?"

"Pretty much," she says, shrugging. They're halfway down the street, near the alienage and she can _still_ hear them arguing about something. There's mentions of little things and she's only half-certain she hears Mother being mentioned before everything's deadly quiet.

"That's not a good sign," Varric mutters, "as much as I hate saying something like that."

Bethany sighs and leans against a stony wall, playing with a loose thread in her cloak. "It's been waiting a while to happen, truth be told. Mother's death his us all hard; Garret blames himself and Carver blames him _and_ himself. Carver's always been a bit jealous that our brother is the one to look over us – he's always been hidden in the shadows and unlike me, doesn't seem to take it all in stride."

Varric grunts something as he rubs his chin. "If you don't mind me asking… how do you cope?"

She shrugs again. "I honestly don't know. They're so protective of each other but they don't want to admit it – it's like a sign of weakness, or something like that. It's just… _men_," she sighs, throwing her hands into the air. "No offence to you, of course."

"None taken. In fact, I remember a lot of arguments my brother and I had like that," he says, locking his fingers behind his head. "Granted they usually ended with bloody noses and broken eyes, but sometimes, it's the only way we could resolve something."

"They're quite the same," Bethany says, smiling. Shepard sits by her side, attention rapt on the direction they came as she rubs his head. "Sometimes I'm sure they're only able to talk when they're arguing. They're so protective of our family but so competitive at the same time – the only way I cope is by holding _them_ together. If they didn't share the burden of protecting me, I think Carver would have walked out a long time ago."

"Come now Sunshine," Varric says, patting her arm. "You're not a burden."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "Do you really believe that? Here, in Kirkwall, with _me_?"

"If I didn't mean it, I wouldn't have said it."

She feels the smile spread across her face before she can stop herself. Varric just winks her way and she's certain her heart flutters a little. As quickly as it happens, she kicks herself into reality and reminds herself that not only is she a mage, he a dwarf and now a friend, but he's also a relative stranger and a business partner. And more than that, she tells herself, she can't swoon at the slightest bit of attention anyone gives her!

She takes a breath and pulls the strings over the bag holding her heart a little bit tighter. It buckles a little but finally accepts the darkness, as it always has done. She twirls her hair round a finger subconsciously as she wonders about a time when she won't have to worry about Templars or the like; where she can meet someone nice, he can bury his hands in her hair, grace her mouth with tender kisses and then let his hands wander down to-

"Maker!" she hisses under her breath, blushing bright red at her imagination alone. Varric throws a confused look her way and she passes it off as nothing, forces herself to look away and tries to install _some_ form of calm into herself. While yes, she may have reached womanhood and she remembers Mother telling her such thoughts would happen, she never once paused to consider that she would become so flustered at mere flickers of imagination!

Shepard paws at her legs as she takes a few deep breaths and finally a swig from her water skin. She smiles back at the mabari, scratches behind his ears and whispers sweet nothings to reassure him as both her brothers come storming up the street, some considerable distance between them.

"Right, now we aren't in _actual_ need of a healer," Hawke says, pointedly throwing a glare at Carver, "who's up for clearing up a little bit of Darktown and finding ourselves some maps?"

"Word of advice Hawke; Darktown is never clean," Varric mutters, grinning a little. "Honestly, why anyone would even _want_ to go there, let alone live there is beyond my wildest imagination."

"Are you sure? What if we got a few mopping buckets and maybe the Divine herself to bless it?"

Varric laughs. "The Divine would end up being sold all across Thedas and the mop buckets would probably be used to kill someone."

Bethany tunes out the rest of their conversation as she slips into stride beside Carver. She glances at him, sees no obvious injury and frowns a little as she tears herself between remaining silent out of respect and demanding every detail of their stupid argument out of them.

Finally Carver growls to himself and starts grinding his teeth as they head to the lowest parts of Lowtown. Bethany recognises the place a little – the familiar twists and turns from jobs she vaguely remembers for Meeran and the recognisable scar across the walls that looks like some strange sort of magical symbol. She's always wondered just what it was, but whenever she looks at it, something pulls at her that she doesn't quite understand but knows she doesn't like nor trust.

Darktown is built within the remains of Kirkwall's old mines, if she remembers correctly. She feels the stale air wash over them as they walk through an ancient doorway twice as tall as her and at least five times as wide. She takes a moment to adjust to the darkness and sees the remains of what she's certain is a cage and a bird in the corner, forgotten to time and even the people living – if that's what they choose to call it – nearby.

"This place is disgusting," Carver grumbles as he kicks a pile of bones across the floor. The sound echoes all around them and makes a number of rats nearby run for cover, squeaking all the while. Shepard barks and chases most of them away, tail wagging as he does so. Hawke turns around to roll his eyes as Carver steps down on a large, rotting bone and listens to the snap echoing all around them.

"If it's so disgusting, breaking things and releasing disease into the air isn't going to help," Hawke lectures, then turns back to Varric, continuing their conversation.

"_Maker_, I hate him sometimes," Carver grumbles.

Bethany's sure he meant it for only himself to hear, but the old mines have a habit of creating echoes. She sees the remains of cobwebs on the roof some ten feet above her and avoids the crumbling rocky floor as she keeps up with them all.

"He's only looking out for us, you know?" she says.

Carver grunts, like he's surprised she heard him and not at the same time. "There's no need for him to act like he's the world's biggest hero as he does so. _'Look at me; I'm the eldest Hawke and I suffer so as I try to guard my family and make sure my beard stays crumb-free.'"_

Bethany isn't sure whether she's laughing at Carver's words or his bad imitation of their brother's voice, but she continues laughing regardless. "You should find your own path," she says seriously, lowering her voice to a bare whisper. "It's obvious you hate being here."

He rolls his eyes as he flicks her shoulder. "I'm not going to leave you. While our dear brother is busy trying to plan this ridiculous trek into the Deep Roads, he isn't really paying much attention to you. At least _one_ of us knows how to protect what's important."

She sighs and slaps him against his bare arm. The sound echoes all around them, though thankfully Hawke and Varric only throw a curious glance at them before dismissing it as nothing and continuing walking.

"I can protect myself," she says, feeling like she's had this argument a million times already. "Carver, I do love you and I'm eternally grateful for every moment you and everyone else in this family have spent trying to protect me, but I don't want that be your life forever. You're going to have to let me go eventually."

"Bethany," Carver says forcefully as he comes to a stop. He grabs her hands and squeezes them between his own and meets her own eyes with his. "I promise you that I'm going to protect you. I don't care what our brother says and I don't care who stands in the way – darkspawn, Templar or Carta. They will not take you to the Circle or hunt you down as long as I'm breathing. Flames to my own purpose if it keeps you alive and free."

She doesn't know whether to cry or slap him. She takes a breath to say _something_ and then a feeling strikes her mind, like a kitten pawing at her through a number of sheets. She feels for it, recognises it for just what it is as she draws her staff and screams, _"Down_!"

Carver tries to cover her with his own body as magic erupts from her left. She kicks him away, slaps him onto the ground with her staff and pulls on the Fade, tugging at it and shaping it to her own will. Hawke throws himself and Varric to the floor as she wills the air all around her to become solid.

She digs her feet into the floor as an explosion of light hammers against her shields. She waits a moment for the energy to begin to fall, then she rips it from the air and throws it back at her attackers with twice the force. Lightning spirals into the shadows, illuminating even the darkest corners and scorching her foes within moments.

She spins away from them, moving by her senses alone. She doesn't see so much as _feel_ the magic in the air, tasting it with all of her senses and drawing conclusions within a moment. Three people coming from her right. Five from her left. Another ten from the shadows above and behind them. She processes the information within a moment and tears into the Fade once more. Fire spills out of the gaps and follows her direction, slamming into her foes and burning them alive as they scream.

She hears the clash of steel behind her and knows it's Carver fighting someone just by the sounds alone. She spins on her heels, twirling her staff between her hands and summons another breath of lightning to slam into everyone. Out of nowhere an arrow hammers into her shoulder and knocks her onto the ground, scattering her spell all around her. It seeks out targets indiscriminately and she's certain she's hit one of her brothers.

She swears as the pain in her shoulder blossoms from a bite to a scream. She tears out the arrow, swearing more so as she does so and presses and hand over the wound, healing it as best she can. The shadows seem to move around her as Varric appears; a swirling cloak of darkness billowing around him and scattering as his crossbow sings into the darkness of the mines.

She rolls across the floor and leaps to her feet behind him, her staff spilling flames from the tip. Varric presses against her back – she notices instantly how unusual it is, that he only comes up to her chest – and starts picking off shadows one by one. She sees Hawke in the near distance, slicing into someone with his daggers as Shepard snarls violently, ripping into the screaming body of someone on the floor.

She sees someone move to attack Carver and calls on all the cold she can imagine. It freezes the shadow alive just in time for Carver to spin around and slice the icicle's head off. He smiles a little at her as he glances around, still ready until he decides that everyone that needs to be dead is dead.

"That all of them?" he asks slowly.

"I think so," Bethany whispers. She glances around herself, fingers still wrapped tight around her staff as her eyes take in the darkness. Her ears are straining, but she can't hear anything apart from the slow drip of water and the panting breaths of her brothers and Varric.

"I think that's all of them," Hawke says. "What _delightful_ chaps they were – usually people offer me a drink first before trying to stab me in the gut."

Bethany sees that Varric's the only one not too confident about their victory. His finger is ready over Bianca's trigger and he's low to the ground, almost like he's sniffing out their foes. Hawke makes a stupid joke about something Bethany doesn't quite hear, for her attention is rapt on Varric's suddenly shocked face.

"Look out!" he screams as he lowers Bianca at them.

Bethany has her staff in front of her like a shield before she knows it. She can't see anything in the dark. She can't hear anything until suddenly, the shadows move and something wet explodes across her face.

For an eternal moment, she sees Carver's face twisted in surprise and pain.

Then the moment's over and she's staring at a sword where her brother's chest used to be. She screams without realising she's doing so and summons every ounce of power she feels in her body. The earth itself hears her call and sucks the shadow-cloaked dwarf up, snapping his bones and spraying them back out into the empty air.

Hawke's buried his daggers in someone's face and is already moving on to stab another as Varric fills another dwarf full of holes. Bethany hears Shepard snarling at someone, but she can't see who and she doesn't want to, because all her attention is on the gaping hole where Carver's stomach once was.

She drops her staff and falls on her knees beside him. He coughs up a little bit of blood and looks like he's trying to say something but can't find the words. She doesn't know what to do and the world becomes blurry within a moment. Her hands press stupidly onto his chest, her magic forgotten as she tries to hold him back together and somehow repair him.

He coughs once more and blood sprays her cheek. She looks down and sees _blood_ all around her; thick, red, copper-smelling blood that makes her remember Mother and the way the ogre had left her broken and beaten and the way she couldn't do anything to help her and now oh Maker Carver's dying underneath her hands and she doesn't know what to do because there's so much blood and he can't speak and –

"-Bethany!"

She winces as the slap connects with her face and reality returns back to her. Carver's still beneath her, somehow still alive. Hawke's holding together what he can, hands covered in blood and a panic on his face Bethany's never really seen before.

"_Heal_ _him_!" he all-but-screams at her.

She nods stupidly and wills the magic back into her body. It feels distant to her touch and tears at her mind more than ever, like an overused muscle that's stretched far too thin. She sees all the blood around her and for a moment she's back in Lothering, watching her mother die.

She blinks the memory away and focuses instead on Carver. He moans and lets her know he's still alive. She swears as the magic flickers under her command and takes forever to obey her. The bleeding slows a little but still pours out faster than she can keep up with. She swears again, bites back the urge to burst into tears and screams defiantly at everything she can think of as she pours every ounce of willpower she has into healing her brother.

The Fade whispers in her mind as she does so; promises of power, of healing her brother. All it would take is a second of contact. She snarls at them mentally, battling on two fronts as she keeps trying to heal Carver. The blood's slowing, but she's not sure if it's because he's dying or because he's healing. Finally she manages to close the wound and stares at it like it's something forbidden – the way the new, bright white flesh slowly begins to grow purple blotches and all Carver's skin around it becomes coated in sweat and grows paler still.

"I can't do anything else," she admits, falling to her hands as the tears finally spill from her eyes. "We need the healer! He's bleeding on the inside – I don't know how to heal that!"

Hawke's silent for a long moment. It's a deadly silence as she's not sure what will happen when it's broken. Finally he stands up, strides two paces and picks up a dwarf from the floor by the scruff of his neck. Bethany blinks, not even aware there were any survivors as Hawke slams the dwarf into the stone wall behind him hard enough to make something crack.

"The healer," Hawke growls. "Tell me where he is. _Now_!"

"I don't-"

Hawke cuts him off as he slams him against the wall again.

"_The healer_!" he roars. The dwarf cowers as Hawke draws a knife and presses it into the man's cheek. "Tell me where the healer is now, or I'll cut off your testicles and force them down your throat!"

The dwarf says nothing, whimpering little noises until Hawke growls, shoves him against the wall again and presses his knife into the dwarf's belt.

"Alright!" the dwarf screams. "Up the alley, third left and then at the end of that alley! That's the healer's clinic!"

"Good boy," Hawke snarls, then slits the dwarf's throat.

He walks away from the dwarf as he thrashes on the floor, dying loudly behind them. "Can we move him?" he asks Bethany.

She blinks, only just aware that the man asking her is her brother and not the monster she just saw kill a man in cold blood. She swallows and manages a shaky nod. "We're going to have to," she says slowly. She grabs Carver underneath an arm and waits for Hawke to grab the over. "Don't move him too much or too fast – you might tear something."

Carver mumbles something into her ear, but it comes out as nothing but hot breath and gibberish. Hawke laughs nervously from the other side of Carver as they both grunt and pull him to his feet.

"Don't waste your energy moaning now, alright Carver?" Hawke says, voice breaking. "We'll get you to the healer and then after that you can bitch and whine as much as you like, alright?"

Carver mumbles something else like he's half asleep. Bethany knows him well enough to know he's telling their brother to shut up. She smiles a little at the thought as she pinches his arm just hard enough to keep him awake.

"Varric, lead the way," Hawke says. The dwarf nods soundlessly, Bianca still out and ready to shoot. Shepard's still whining around them – Bethany's unsure as to how she blocked it out for so long but now she's noticed it, she hears the way it bounces all around them.

She ignores it as best she can and focuses on carrying Carver. Each step they take is painful for all of them. Within a few minutes her back is soaked in sweat and her lower back screams with pain while she's convinced she's torn open the wound in her own shoulder. The back of her neck is coated in sweat from Carver's arms and she can see the way it's dripping off him. His chest is becoming purpler by the minute and she curses herself for the useless repair job she managed to do.

Again the whispers from the fade come for her. She bites her lip hard and ignores them all, focusing on walking. The promises of power mean nothing to her – Carver would never forgive her if she gave in to heal him. He would rather her let him die than give into temptation to save his life and she hates herself that she would rather let him die than make any deal.

"We're here," Varric says after what feels like an eternity. Bethany sees nothing but a large stone wall with a wooden door twice as tall as her. A single lantern hangs above it, fire basking everyone a brilliant orange under its light. She glances at Carver as he mumbles something again, sees his head swing around on his shoulders and notices just how pale he's become.

"Don't die on me now," Hawke hisses at him. Carver grunts something, almost like a laugh before he passes out as Varric and Shepard both crash into the door and send it flying wide open.

The inside of the clinic is far bigger than Bethany thought it would be. It's nearly the size of the market square in Lowtown, though the walls are lined with beds filled with people. Huge cracks in the wall to her right let in streams of light that make it seem a bit friendlier than the many glowing-red fires do.

The main thing she notices though, is a child on a stone slab some several yards away from her. Above him is a man who wears a long coat decorated with dark feathers and has long blonde hair pulled back behind his head. Even from a distance she can see the blue glow of his hands as he presses them to the boy and forces healing magic into him.

It takes them all of three steps for the healer to bring the boy back to life. The mage drops his hands to his knees and leans heavily as the boy's parents whisk the child away, bowing deeply and thanking the mage as loudly as they can.

Finally the mage stands up and seems to notice them for the first time. He snatches a staff leaning against a nearby post and points it at them, his eyes crackling blue as he does so.

Bethany sees it and feels her stomach turn, like its begging her to run.

"This place is a sanctuary of healing!" the healer shouts at them, his voice somewhat distorted. "_Why do you dare threaten it?_"

Before she can even think of an answer, Hawke shouts back, "_Shut up and heal my brother!_"

The mage blinks and seems to realise for the first time that they're carrying what remains of Carver's life in their hands. He apologises soundlessly as he gestures them to ease him down onto the table and frowns as he presses his hands against the purple blotching of Carver's skin.

"This wasn't healed right," he says, voice soft. "He's bleeding internally."

"It was the best I could do," Bethany growls before she can stop herself. The healer looks up at her, curiosity and surprise in his face. "He was going to die – I did what I could to put that off for as long as possible."

The healer nods and looks back down to Carver. "In that case, I might be able to save him." He takes a deep breath, presses his hands to Carver's chest and all the hairs on Bethany's neck stand up at the power that comes forth.

She takes a step back instinctively, though no one notices it. She watches in fascinated awe as she sees the bruising on Carver's stomach fade away, though the flood of magic in the air sends warning bells screaming in her ears. Something about it just doesn't feel right, though she's not entirely certain just why that is.

Finally the glow fades away and Carver looks a bit healthier. The mage doubles over once more, panting heavily as sweat drips freely from his head. He stands back up, wipes his head with a sleeve and manages to smile at them.

"He'll live," he says and it's like a weight has been lifted from Bethany's shoulders. She lets out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding and fights the urge to sing and dance right there.

Her brother, as it turns out, is a lot less restrained. He leaps at the mage and hugs him, much to his surprise. "I could kiss you right now."

The mage laughs somewhat awkwardly. "And I could ask you to. However, now's not the time for that." He takes another long look at Bethany, almost like he's evaluating her and she feels decidedly uncomfortable.

The fact that his eyes are brown and yet she's certain they flashed blue unnerves her a little. That, added to the way he looks at her makes her feel a little uncertain. Varric clears his throat and manages to distract the mage from looking at her.

"Right," he says, somewhat distantly. "Like I said, he'll live, but he's going to need a few more healings before morning to make sure he'll be back to full health. The scar tissues on his chest will remain, I'm afraid, but that's better than the alternative though, isn't it?" He smiles a little and offers a quick bow to them. "I'm Anders by the way, pleased to help in any way I can."

Hawke stands up from checking Carver to flash a toothy smile at Anders. "Well, funnily enough, we did come to you for a specific reason before we actually needed healing."

"Oh?" Anders raises an eyebrow, but Bethany feels the twinge of magic in the air. He's nervous about something and she isn't entirely certain she wants to force him into any sort of confrontation. "Perhaps we should speak privately, then?"

Hawke shakes his head quickly. "I'm not leaving my brother."

Anders takes a long look at them and sighs. "Very well," he says, running a hand over dark brown stubble. "Help me move him to a cot and we'll discuss this matter there."

Bethany feels rather useless as Hawke and Anders both lift Carver with ease and move him gently into a cot by the wall. There's no one around their large group and they seem to all be leaving them well alone as Anders bends over and makes a show of checking Carver's wound once more.

"So what is it you want?" Anders asks sharply.

Varric spreads his arms out, smile on his face. "We heard that you were a Grey Warden-"

"Did the Wardens send you?" Anders hisses, snapping his gaze up to them all. "I'm not going back to them." His anger melts away into something like a pout as he sighs and sits down on the cot behind him. "Those bastards made me get rid of my cat."

Hawke looks like he's uncertain what to say. "You had a cat? In the Grey Wardens?"

"Poor Ser Pounce-A-Lot," Anders sighs. "Swatted a genlock on the nose once. Drew blood too."

"Ri-ight," Hawke says, circling a finger by the side of his head. "We're not here about the Wardens – whatever business you had with them is between you and them. We're planning an expedition into the Deep Roads -"

"_The Deep Roads_," Anders snarls, throwing his hands into the air. "I'll die a happy man if I can never think about the blighted Deep Roads again."

"Well, you can die as happily as you'd like, after this," Hawke says quickly. "We're looking for maps of the local area and well… we were hoping you could help us." He grimaces and looks down to Carver. "Of course, I understand that's saying a lot, considering how much you've already helped us. If it helps, I'll do anything you want as repayment for saving my brother's life and a favour for a favour in exchange for the maps."

Anders' mouth quirks into a little smirk. "_Anything_ I want?"

"Within reason – no children or animals," Hawke says. "And nothing involving talking dragon-ladies – don't ask about that one."

"Very well," Anders says, chuckling slightly. He rubs his chin, sighs and looks back up to them all. "I charge nothing for healing – my magic is a gift from the Maker and it helps people to realise that not all mages are demons that need culling. However, I do know something you can do for me, in exchange for the maps. A friend of mine from the Fereldan Circle was transferred here, to Kirkwall some time ago. A nursemaid would exchange letters for us often, but I haven't heard much from Karl as of late." He frowns and re-ties his hair behind his head. "I received a letter yesterday from him, saying that he wishes to meet me in the Chantry tomorrow night, after dark."

Bethany bites her lip, already sensing where this is going. The moment Anders mentions helping his friend escape Kirkwall, she feels all her anxiety explode at once.

"_Templars_?" she hisses. "I'm all for helping a fellow mage, but I don't want to risk the wrath of Templars on my head."

"Sunshine's right," Varric says. He folds his arms and looks straight into Anders' eyes. "But one thing that bugs me is why a mage would arrange to meet you in the Chantry. Why there, and not somewhere that's closer to the Gallows and runs less risk of him getting caught escaping?"

Anders shrugs. "The Circle here has no Chantry built into its walls, like the Fereldan Circle. As such, mages are allowed to travel to the Chantry under supervision as the Knight-Commander sees fit. Once outside the Gallows, it won't be so hard for a few Templars to go missing or have an accident."

The way he says it so casually makes Bethany shiver. It's almost like he's done so before or cares nothing for their lives. Sure, she may be deathly afraid of the Templars and what they stand for, but Father always taught her that underneath the armour, Templars were still people. They had friends and families to go home to, just like she did. He always told her that if she hated them for who they were, she was no different from the many who hated her for simply being a mage.

"Fine," Hawke says, clearly reluctant. "We'll be your bodyguards or look out for you during this visit, or whatever you wish us to do." He sets his face in a grim line and turns his head to Bethany. "You're sitting this one out – I don't want to risk anything."

"Tough," she says, crossing her arms. "I'm going." She glances down at Carver, still unconscious and brushes his hair from his face. She looks back up at Anders and meets his eyes. "You healed him and fixed my mistakes; if you won't accept any reward for that, then I'm going to help you with this meeting of yours."

"Shit," Varric says from behind Bethany and Hawke. "If you guys are doing this, I guess you can count me in too. Nothing like causing a bit of tension between two already warring factions to make life just that little bit more exciting."

Shepard barks, almost like he's in complete agreement. Anders smiles at them all and bows his head once more. "Thank you all. I can't tell you how much this means to me; all mages should be free to live without the confines of oppression dictating their every move." He presses down on his knees as he stands up, checks Carver once more and presses a little bit more healing magic into his scar. "He'll need to stay here until morning – you're free to do so if you wish. Tomorrow, at dusk I'll meet you west of the Chanter's Board, near the gates that lead into Lowtown. Once everything is done, I'll present you with the maps."

Hawke nods as he stands up. "And what if it all goes wrong and you end up dead?"

"I've made arrangements, should that happen," Anders says, all-too-quickly. "You'll receive your maps as long as you help me, rest assured. In the meantime, I have more patients to help."

"Wait!" Bethany calls after him. She bites her lip as her brain catches up, questioning her as to whether or not she truly thinks this is wise. She convinces herself it is – after all, she's not leaving until she knows Carver is well and she needs to learn, should something like this ever happen again. "Do you… do you need any help healing?"

He looks genuinely surprised for a second. "Do you have any experience, beside the quick-job you did on your brother?"

She flinches at his words, taking them like an insult. "I can rip up sheets and boil water," she says stubbornly, "anything that doesn't require the use of _talents_. Otherwise, I can heal a few large wounds, but I want to learn more."

Anders tucks a fist beneath his chin, evaluating her slowly. "Alright," he says. "Follow my direction and I'll see what I can teach you as we're going along."

Bethany smiles a little. As she moves to stand, Hawke grabs her wrist and forces her to look at him. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I know we owe him, but I don't think you should suddenly join up with him – we don't know anyone here! Any one of them could try and makes things difficult!"

"I know," Bethany says tiredly, snatching her wrist away. "But the fact remains that he's a brilliant healer and I nearly killed Carver when I tried to heal him. I can't heal major wounds – I know that. Maybe if I could, I may have been able to bring Mother back. Let me do this, Brother. I need to prove to myself that my powers aren't just a burden."

He nods so slowly she's uncertain he's even aware he's doing so. When he does she smiles and makes her way towards Anders. She knows that she can't trust him, not totally at least and knows that she's making risks. But she _needs_ to improve her skills somehow, just to make sure that nothing like today ever manages to happen again.

**-x-X-x-**

Hawke isn't quite sure when the world started to spin, but he's certain it has to be between the last three swigs of whiskey. He grunts as he blinks heavily, rubs his eyes and tries to make the world around him make some sort of sense.

"You've got to learn your weaknesses," Aveline says in a tired sigh from across him.

He blinks again, dimly remembering Varric returning home and sending a runner for Aveline. The woman came down not shortly after that and sat with Hawke, sharing a few drinks as they watched over Carver as Shepard slept under his cot and Bethany busied herself trying to learn elsewhere in the clinic.

Hawke sighs and sinks a bit into the empty cot. "My weaknesses? I hardly think pissing my pants when I think my brother's going to die is a _weakness_."

"No, you ass," Aveline says sharply. She grabs him by the shoulders and presses her thumbs in until the pain brings a little clarity to his world. "Your weaknesses; your oversights and liabilities in battle. I prefer using my shield arm, occasionally treat my sword as more of an axe and I'm too slow in my armour to get anywhere effectively. _Those_ sort of weaknesses."

Hawke snorts and waves a hand at her. "Then tell me, great, wise Aveline, what are these weaknesses?"

She snorts and folds her leg over a knee, leaning back against the wall. "Bethany's afraid to use anything she can, because of what might happen. She's hesitant in every action she makes, unless you or Carver are threatened and then she starts to lose control. Carver's too hasty and throws himself into danger without thinking. It means that he or any of his allies are far more likely to get hurt. When he sees Bethany in danger he loses control and he's too eager to show off and prove himself that he makes stupid mistakes.

"And you Hawke don't pay enough attention to your surroundings," she says, tapping his knee with her armoured boots. "You spend every moment in combat looking for Bethany and Carver that you rarely ever notice any danger to yourself until it's in your face. You're lucky that this injury was able to be healed," she says, gesturing to Carver. "If you carry on fighting the way you do, you're going to end up dead before you can help either of them. If that happens, Carver will lose control and make even stupider mistakes and get himself seriously hurt, whilst Bethany will become so blinded by hate that she'll either get blindsided or… something worse will happen."

"Bethany would _never_ let anything make a deal or take over," Hawke growls.

"Maybe not." Aveline shrugs and throws back a shot of whiskey. "The point is that you need to consider these things. You're the head of your family Hawke; act like it. Stop being so stupid when you're fighting and find a way that you can protect them and yourself at the same time. You're no good to them dead." She places her glass on the floor and stands easily. "Give Carver my best when he wakes up and be careful with this mission tomorrow. And Hawke-?" She stops as she's halfway to the exit and her face reveals concern for just a moment. "Listen to what I said. You three may not be blood, but you're as good as to me. I don't want to ever have to commit any of you to the pyre."

Hawke says nothing to that, instead listening to the way her footsteps echo around the clinic. He sighs as he falls back on the cot, hears it buckle under his weight and feels something like bedbugs crawl around underneath him. He growls at them, as if that's enough to deter them but makes no effort to otherwise move.

"She's right, you know."

He shoots back up and nearly falls off the cot in shock. "C-Carver?"

"Don't sound so shocked," Carver says, smiling a little. "Some of us can sleep without snoring like an ox."

"Y-you're okay," Hawke says stupidly. He's half-tempted to throw himself at him and crush him in a bone-splintering hug, but his pride stops him from doing so. Instead he just claps Carver on the shoulder and lets a smile form on his face. "Good to see you're still around."

"To whine and bitch about it, right?"

He laughs. "You heard that then?"

Carver's smile reaches his closed eyes. "I heard a lot of things, Brother. Aveline's right – we're too weak when we fight like that. Meeran's thugs said as much a few times, but we're just destructive enough that we can massacre most things that stand in our way."

Hawke snorts and rolls his eyes. "And since when were you a battlefield tactical genius?"

"Unlike some of us, there are those who learnt basic tactics whilst in the army. I had to fight as a footsoldier whilst you would sneak off and sabotage, remember?" Carver snorts and touches his chest tenderly. "Granted I don't usually agree with them, but I see the necessity for them. This is going to scar, isn't it?"

"The healer said so," Hawke says bluntly. "But hey, at least women like scars!"

"I don't think they like the ones that remove half your nose though."

Hawke touches his nose self-consciously and feels the familiar scar tissue under his fingers. He still remembers what it felt like to have a full nose, rather than a long red scar through it – the days before it was clearly obvious how bad he was at protecting his family.

"I'm sorry," Hawke says suddenly. "About earlier. You know me; I run my mouth and make jokes at the worst of times."

"I'm used to it," Carver snorts. "You think you're funny but you're really not. Nothing new there. So now Aveline's chewed you out and Shepard's busy snoring underneath me, let me get back to sleep, would you?"

"Oh," Hawke says stupidly. He sits back in the empty cot, closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall, taking in the silence for a moment. "Carver?"

"Mph?"

"What… we were close once, weren't we? What happened?"

There's a long silence and Hawke's not entirely certain Carver's even awake until he finally mumbles, "I don't know."

Carver takes in a deep breath and sighs loudly. "Everything changed – you spent more and more time with Father and Bethany, studying even though you weren't a mage and I was just forgotten and ignored, left by myself because you couldn't use a sword and I wasn't smart enough to keep up with you three."

"Oh," Hawke says.

"And then you became a pompous tit who made everyone thinks the sun shines out your ass."

"Like you're much better, with the way you go on about how the world hates you and is only out to get you." Hawke sighs as he realises they're about to get into _another_ argument and wipes a hand across his face.

"Why are you asking all of a sudden?" Carver asks.

"I just…" Hawke swallows a lump in his throat and considers just pretending this entire conversation never happened. "You nearly died, Carver," he says heavily. "I don't… I don't want you to die hating me."

Carver snorts. "Maker forbid someone doesn't believe you're Andraste reborn."

"I'm serious Carver."

"I know."

Hawke sighs again and hits his head against the wall behind him. The thump echoes all around them, though the only reaction it draws is a sleepy snort from Shepard. Hawke shakes his head to himself and presses his hands into his eyes until he starts seeing shapes. "Carver… are we ever going to be friends again?"

Carver's answer is exactly the one he fears.

"I don't know."


	4. The Abomination and the Blood Mage

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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_Chapter Four: The Abomination and the Blood Mage  
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**-x-X-x-**_  
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"_Never trust an apostate; they've always got everything to lose and a Fade's worth of tricks and demons to aide them."_

Hawke keeps his father's advice squarely in the front of his mind as he listens to his footsteps echo on the stones of Hightown. Brilliant white stone buildings glisten orange under the glow of torch lights and he watches as shadows move around his group, almost like they're swirling and waiting for the best moment to strike.

Varric loads a crossbow into Bianca with an audible _twang_ and the shadows move away, for the time being. Hawke sighs to himself, touching the dagger hidden in his sleeve once more and throws a glance back to Carver. His brother seems fine now, a day of rest and continuous healing from both Anders and Bethany, but Hawke still isn't totally sure. Less than a day ago he was bleeding to death beneath his hands and now he's suddenly able to wield his sword without a single problem. His father had always told them that magic wasn't perfect; that you couldn't heal someone and expect perfect results.

"So…" Varric says slowly, "anyone else feel like we're walking into a very large trap?"

"I don't trust him," Bethany says, her hands noticeably tight around her staff. "When he was teaching me, all he ever spoke about was mages – how mages are oppressed, how the Templars abuse their power, how Thedas will only receive true justice when the Chantry doesn't steal children from their parents…" She sighs loudly into the darkness. "I don't trust him."

"Funny," Carver grunts, "you're spending an awful lot of time around him, considering you don't trust him."

"He saved your life, Carver," Hawke interjects. He rubs his eyes and refuses to look back at them. Just last night he thought they'd made a breakthrough and now they're back to being at each other's throats, ripping out more than ever. "At least be thankful for that much."

"And being around him doesn't mean I have to trust him," Bethany argues. "I need to learn, Carver. I can't let another stupid mistake like that nearly claim yours or anyone's lives. If I have to learn from him, so be it. But I'm not stupid and I'm not going to let him fill my head with these dreams of mages breaking free – dangerous mages need looking after and those who can't be taught do too. He wants to release _everyone_, by the sounds of it."

"Perhaps we should discuss this another time?" Hawke suggests. He hears the way their voices echo everywhere and decides that if Anders is nearby, he can definitely hear their conversation. He sees the Chantry ahead, looming over them all. It stands nearly as high as the Viscount's Peak in the sky and reminds him of an ancient Tevinter castle, breaking free against the sky and threatening the Maker in the heavens above.

He pulls his cloak tighter around his head and glances back to see his companions do the same. A lone guard on patrol scurries across the Chantry square somewhat nervously, her hand constantly on the pommel of her sword. Hawke waits back in the shadows for her to climb up the stairs to the residential district before he crosses the square and finds Anders stood in the shadows of a nearby alleyway, watching the Chantry from beneath the cover of his hooded cloak.

"You're here," Anders says without even looking their way. Hawke's stomach peaks just a little – a tiny bit of fear telling him to run, but he ignores it as best he can. He owes Anders, whether he likes it or not. He needs the maps from him, whether he likes it or not. He'll help him in this task and get the maps one way or another.

"Surprised?" Hawke asks, smiling nervously in the dark. Shepard drops to his stomach on the floor beside him, surprising him with the sudden sound. The mabari has been so silent Hawke had nearly forgotten he's with them. He bends down and pats Shepard on the ribs before glancing up at the Chantry, following Anders' gaze. "I've only seen one guard, but she's gone to the residential district."

"And a few curious shadows," Varric says quickly. "But they moved on the moment they saw we were armed and ready to remove their teeth without a moment's thought."

Carver swings his sword off his back and plants the point of the blade into the ground with a loud clang. "Should we get a move on?" he asks impatiently. "Thank you for everything you did, but you can understand why I'm a little dubious about going up against the bloody Templars when we're meant to be avoiding them."

Hawke sighs and throws his hand backwards, slapping Carver across the chest without even needing to look back. "Ignore my brother. No one expresses gratitude quite like him."

A chuckle comes from Anders' direction. Hawke isn't sure he likes the sound of it but he maintains a smile as best he can.

"Don't worry about it. Mages aren't exactly known for their popularity; there were Wardens who were considerably less generous with their words." Hawke's certain he sees something glow blue for just an instant underneath Anders' cloak, but he dismisses it as his imagination as Anders takes a step out of the shadows towards them. "Karl went into the Chantry about half an hour ago. I haven't seen anyone leave or enter since then."

"Again," Varric says, coughing loudly, "there's a certain phrase I don't want to say that accurately describes this scenario."

Hawke throws him the best smile he can manage under the situation. Trust Varric to try and inject some form of humour into this situation. He takes a deep breath and glances back to Anders, who remains silent, his gaze ever-present on the Chantry. It's unreal how harshly he stares at a simple building and Hawke decides that maybe he should never bring Anders anywhere near it, ever.

"So, do you think we should go in there anytime soon?" he asks, pointing up the seemingly limitless stairs. "Unless of course you can somehow see through the walls of this building – in that case, feel free to keep staring through it."

"Yes… right," Anders says, somewhat shakily. He presses his fingers to his face, rubs his eyes and sighs before he leads them up the stairs towards the Chantry.

Hawke's certain the way his legs burn has to be some sort of strange test made up by the Divine. Only those who can run up and down the stairs all day without fatigue are truly worthy of Andraste's blessing. Something like that. He wouldn't put it past them to do something like that – they are _Orlesian_ after all; nothing's ever done unless it's completely frivolous and over the top.

"It's unlocked," Anders tells them as he presses gently against the doors to the Chantry. "Stay nearby me – if the Templars come, for whatever reason, I'm counting on you all to buy me time to help Karl escape."

"Sure," Hawke says, though he's uncertain as to how far he'll keep that word. If it means putting Bethany in danger, then he'll ignore every order Anders gives them. He'll happily throw this mage to the wolves if it means his sister can stay free – even if it means people have to go without free healing. He knows it's cruel, but their lives mean nothing compared to his family.

Carver already has his blade drawn and pointing threateningly towards the gloom of the Chantry. It's a huge palace of a building, with rafters far higher than a quartet of ogres standing on each other's shoulders could ever hope to achieve. The entire building looks like a perfect blend of Tevinter and Orlesian design – Tevinter in the awe-striking perfect craftsmanship of stone, Orlesian in the fastidious decorations and poncy statues.

In the main room of the Chantry though, a massive statue of Andraste greets them. She stands almost as tall as the building itself; both her hands out holding a bowl that collects water dripping from the roof. Hawke can see the water trickle from the bowl, down Andraste's arms and into a small pool on the top floor where the Grand Cleric gives her speeches and blesses the common folk. They must use that water for blessings, Hawke assumes. What better way to tell people they've been blessed by Andraste than by dipping them in water that runs off her statue?

"This way," Anders says, leading them up a set of stairs on the eastern side of the building. Hawke wonders just how Anders knows what way they're meant to go – he can't see any markings or trail-signs, but Anders seems to know the way nonetheless. By his side, Shepard is tense, growling so softly Hawke can barely hear it. His mabari is clearly uncertain of this place, as is he.

Anders takes them to a portion of the top floor that seems to be a little study. Shelves of books line the walls of an alcove, though the eastern walls are covered in huge windows decorated with stained glass. The Orlesian influence in their design is obvious – extravagant designs set into the glass itself that even in the night sky seems to shine into the building with brilliant light.

They stop as they see a man in near-pristine dark green robes stood before the windows. He stares out of the window and holds his hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious to their arrival.

Shepard whimpers a little and breaks their silence. Anders moves towards the man, stretching an arm out as he does so.

"Karl," he says, warmth in his voice, "it's so good to see you."

"Anders," Karl says, voice flat. Hawke's stomach spikes with fear as he glances at Bethany and sees her face knit in stunned realisation. Karl turns around to face them and at first glance, nothing about him seems odd. His hair and beard are both grey, though he still looks rather young, considering. His eyes are dull and lifeless though and in the middle of his forehead is a golden yellow sun, branded into his flesh.

The burn marks where they made the brand are still visible on Karl's forehead. The world is silent for what seems like an eternity, then Anders lets loose a cry as he rushes towards Karl and places his hands on the man's shoulders.

"Karl!" he screams into the man's empty face. "What have they-? They branded you? Why? They're not supposed to brand a mage who passed their Harrowing!"

Karl looks back at Anders like he doesn't even know him. "I was deemed too rebellious," he says in even, flat tones. "They put me to the brand, as they were right to do so. You will understand soon Anders; it is best to accept the inevitable."

"Karl no!" Anders shouts, just as Karl raises a hand. Hawke swears as the sounds of metal armour suddenly come into view and Templars emerge from the stairs and adjacent doorways. He has no idea how they missed them, nor does he even want to begin to consider what they'll do if they get captured.

He draws his blades and grits his teeth, ready for a fight. He waits for them to make their move when he hears Carver swear and the room behind him _glows_ blue. He glances over his shoulder to see Anders stood there, cloak forgotten on the floor and his skin peeling, revealing a bright, shining light almost like liquid lyrium.

The very air seems to swirl around Anders as he takes a breath and screams in a voice that goes through Hawke's entire being, "_**You shall never harm another mage as you did him**_!"

In that instant, the Veil tears in a way Hawke never thought was possible. Winds explode into existence within the Chantry and the floor cracks beneath his feet. Shepard throws back his head and howls as the building around them shakes and books fly off the shelves. He sees Carver swearing as he jams his blade into the floor and holds on for dear life.

Hawke isn't quite as lucky. The winds pick him up and throw him against the stone bannisters of the balcony. His breath leaves him in one painful, long gasp and he lands on the floor, daggers forgotten somewhere as he tries desperately to breathe. Shepard flies through the air after him, not entirely of his own accord. The mabari crashes into him with another howl, whining pitifully as he sniffs Hawke curiously. He sees Carver grab Bethany and hold them tight against the floor as the shelf Varric was hiding behind tears into the air and splinters before their very eyes.

The Templars take their chance to strike. Unfortunately for them, Anders is ready. He lashes out with a hand that distorts the air and throws them all into the ceiling of the building. They bounce off the walls and roof both, land on the floor and get pulled up into the air once more by invisible strings. One by one they scream, struggling against invisible bonds before they burst into pink mist before Hawke's eyes.

He swears with what little breath he has left. Anders stalks towards the remaining Templars, evaporating stone and Templar both as he walks towards them. The Templars fall over their own feet as they try to retreat back down the stairs and escape.

Anders is faster, however. He gestures with a hand and ice springs into existence below, creating a magnificent wall that blocks their escape. He smiles grimly as they look back up at him and raises his hands to the statue above them all.

"_**You claim you enforce Andraste's will,"**_ he booms, _**"let us see if She feels the same way."**_

He throws both his hands into the air and a humongous splinter appears in the statue of Andraste. Anders grunts once more and Andraste bursts into humongous pieces, swirling around in the air and flying into Templars and the building alike. Scattered pieces of Andraste rain down from above them, crushing Templars and destroying the building itself. The larger pieces of Andraste burst into dust and swirl all around them, creating a sandstorm that rips through the metallic armour of the Templars and reduces their dying screams to choking gurgles.

"Brother!" Carver screams above the deafening roar of the sandstorm. Hawke blinks and finds Carver stood above him, blade brandished like a shield against the swirling storms. Bethany clings to him even as she tries to crouch down and press healing magic into Hawke.

He shakes his head and grabs her arm to help himself back up. Shepard whines again, pawing at them both and buries himself underneath Bethany's skirts, whimpering at the changing storms.

"If he starts making it rain fire, I'm leaving!" Varric shouts above the noise. Hawke follows his voice and smiles as he finds the dwarf underneath an overturned bookshelf, Bianca readied and poking out from his shelter. A sign of green robes tells him that Varric's got Karl hidden underneath the wreckage with him. "Give me the word Hawke!"

Hawke nods and glances back at Anders. The fact that he's obviously an abomination is like a slap in the face. If what Father said was true, he'll be far harder to kill than a normal human. The fact that none of them are receiving the wrath of all of this is the one thing that makes him feel slightly better about everything.

"Give me a moment!" he screams and feels for the dagger up his sleeve. He motions for Shepard to stay with Bethany and Carver as he digs his heels into the floor and struggles against the buffeting winds to reach Anders.

The abomination is still using Andraste to destroy his enemies. He laughs like a creature from nightmares and Hawke has to grit his teeth to ignore the fear that races down his spine. Anders saved his brother, so he'll give him one chance. But the moment he thinks his family are in danger, he won't hesitate.

"Anders!" he screams over the storm. The man ignores them, lightning exploding from his fingertips to fry the remains of Templars. Hawke curses, runs against the winds and lands on Anders' back, pressing the blade of his dagger to the man's neck.

He smells of lyrium, elfroot, ozone and curiously; wet dog. Hawke swears as the glowing parts of Anders' skin start to burn him and presses his dagger just a little further into the man's neck.

"Anders! Listen to me!" he screams into his ear. "Stop this madness! The Templars are dead!"

Anders throws him off without any obvious effort. Hawke lands on the floor roughly, his dagger spilling out of his hands as Anders whirls on him, eyes leaking blue vapours. He raises a hand and just as Hawke flinches, a whistling sound pierces the air. Blood sprays across his boots as Anders staggers back, a single crossbow bolt sticking out from his upraised hand.

"The next one won't be so kind!" Varric screams.

Anders looks at the bolt in his hand and seems to slowly recognise what's going on. The winds start to die down and the glow from his body slowly fades until his skin returns to normal. Hawke sighs as Anders' eyes return to a normal brown and the remains of Andraste drop to the floor somewhere nearby.

Shepard nearly bowls him over as he races to see him. Anders staggers on his feet, shakes his head and gives Hawke a look that is equal parts shame and regret.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly. He takes a step towards him, but Shepard raises his haunches and growls, all his teeth bared in a fierce snarl. Anders takes a quick step back and Shepard continues his vigil until the man walks away from the all and helps Varric out of the wreckage.

"Behold your healing teacher," Carver snarls to Bethany. She doesn't visibly react, instead standing perfectly still, her skin a paler white than the marble building around them.

"Karl!" Anders cries as he helps the man out of the wreckage. Hawke sees him bleeding, watches as Anders presses a hand to Karl's head and the light seems to come back into his eyes.

"Anders?" Karl whispers, grabbing his hand. "Is it… what did you do? It's like you brought a piece of the Fade into the world!"

"Being all glowy and demonic _might _have something to do with that," Hawke growls. He smiles as Varric gives him a thumbs up and throws Bianca back over his shoulder. "You nearly killed us all."

"I'm not a demon!" Anders snarls, glowing blue briefly again. He shakes his head and turns his gaze away from them. "Please, let us talk about this later."

"Fine," Hawke says, shrugging. "Hanged Man in two hours. Be there, bring the maps and not your portable nightlight. We've held up our end of the bargain and this place is free from Templars. Good luck with your friend."

He turns on his heel and strides over the wreckage in the Chantry. He knows the guards have to have been alerted by all the noise and will be arriving shortly, if not in the next few minutes. He makes sure both Bethany and Carver are alright, inspects Shepard quickly and then leads them out of a secret entrance they've used once or twice before. Whether or not Anders sees them use it or gets caught by Templars isn't his concern anymore – all he cares about is that his family is safe.

**-x-X-x-**

"Blighted mages. Are there any here that aren't possessed or running around slitting their wrists to make more demons appear?"

Hawke snorts and can't help but agree with Carver's statement. He throws back a swig of ale and for her sake alone, squeezes Bethany's shoulder. "There's one, at least," he says.

"Thank you," she says, obviously forcing a smile. "But… is that really what happens? Father showed us dead abominations, sure… but to see one alive and so close… it frightens me, knowing that could easily be me, were I to lower my guard for a moment."

"Cheer up Sunshine," Varric says as he puts his feet on the table. "We all know you're not stupid enough to go around dealing with demons and sucking people's blood." He reaches under his chair for a small journal and grabs a quill and ink from the stand next to his chair. "Besides, it gives me an idea for a story; _'Hard Possession' _– the love story of a possessed mage trying hard to overcome his demons and fall back into the arms of his lover." He snorts to himself and starts scribbling into his journal. "If you ask me, it's a bestseller waiting to happen."

"Because what the world needs is demon-friendly literature. _Right_." Carver laughs scornfully and takes a large gulp of his ale. "I never considered the other side of the argument; Father always told us how people could fear mages, but up until we moved here, I never saw it. Now I see it with my own eyes… I can't help but wonder if they're right. What if mages _are_ to be feared?"

"_Thank you_, Carver," Bethany snarls. She folds her arms across her chest and pointedly looks away from him as his face drops and he trips over his own words.

"I didn't mean it about you! I just – the dangerous mages, the ones who were never trained and think they can make these deals to escape Templars!" He sighs and holds his hands up. "Whatever. That thing between my teeth is my foot – you're clearly not going to listen to this anytime soon."

"Or ever," Hawke points out. He sees Carver is just about to retort before his face twists into a dark scowl and there's a knock on the doorframe of Varric's suite.

Shepard leaps to his feet, races out from underneath the table and bounds to the door. As soon as he sees Anders stood there, he pins his ears flat against his skull and snarls until Anders takes a step backwards.

The mage looks up at them, sheepishness taking over from guilt. "Can you call your hound off?"

"I can," Hawke says flippantly. He takes another mouthful of ale, swirls it around in his mouth and leans back in his chair, placing his feet on the table. "Though I'm waiting for a good reason as to why I should trust you enough to let you in here."

"I-" Anders starts, but trails off quickly, dropping his head. "I can only apologise for my actions earlier. I brought the maps too, as was agreed," he says, presenting them from inside his robes. He holds them towards the door but Shepard snarls again, taking a predatory step towards him. "Can you please call this hound off?"

"It's Varric's suite," Hawke says with a shrug. "If he says you're allowed in, I'll call him off." He rolls his head lazily to Varric and plasters a smile on his face. "What do you think?"

Varric looks between them, frowning heavily. Finally he sighs and drops the quill into his book and closes it. "Let him in Hawke, we need those maps."

"As you wish," he says, shrugging once more. He whistles once and Shepard sits on the floor obediently, though he continues to glare at Anders. "He won't attack you now unless you try something first. Or if I tell him to."

"Urm, my thanks then," Anders says quickly. He presses himself against the doorframe and shuffles around Shepard quickly, giving the dog as much room as he can. When he's in the room he stands there awkwardly, clearly conscious of all eyes on him. He clears his throat and places the maps slowly on the table between them all. "The maps, as we agreed. Your hound is truly a remarkable beast – I knew the Warden-Commander and his could be equally as terrifying."

"You knew the Warden-Commander?" Bethany gasps before anyone can stop her. Her eyes widen at her slip and she slides self-consciously down into her chair.

"I did," Anders says, his face lighting up a little. "Amell was a good man – a brilliant mage, though he focused his magic in a way I've never seen before. He was like a warrior, using his magic through a sword and shield. I take it you've heard the stories."

"And then some," Hawke says. "Apparently we're cousins – our mother was an Amell." He sees Anders' face light up and waves a hand dismissively. "But we're not here to discuss that. You brought us the maps and you have our thanks. I suppose as payment for everything you've done for us, we can keep quiet about your glowing habits."

"I..." Anders stutters, "I'm not an abomination!"

"Funny," Carver drawls, "I must have imagined the part where you glowed blue and vaporised Templars."

"Not to mention the statue of Andraste," Varric adds in. "The word's already out about that and both the guards and the Chantry are going crazy trying to discover who was behind it. Meredith and her Templars have assumed it's to do with mages and are increasing all patrols to search for apostates – sorry to say," he adds, glancing at Bethany quickly.

"Blighted Templars," Anders whispers. He shakes his head and passes his gaze over all of them, settling on Hawke. "I'm not an abomination. Please, let me explain that much."

Hawke's about to tell him just what he can do with his explanation when Varric taps him on the arm with his boot. "Go on," Varric says, smiling widely, "we could use a good story."

"Fine," Hawke sighs, shrugging dramatically. He kicks a wooden chair over to Anders and watches him carefully as he slowly sits down, shrinking into the chair like a naughty child.

"When I was with the Wardens in Amaranthine, I met a Spirit of Justice," Anders tells them. "Much like how demons embody our sins, Spirits embody our virtues – Passion, Faith… Justice."

"So they're demons by other names, who really cares?" Carver snarls. "Long story short, you made a deal and now you're an abomination."

"I'm not!" Anders shouts, his eyes sparking blue for the briefest moment. Carver tenses and Hawke's about to leap at Anders and pummel him to death with his chair when Anders takes a breath and calms himself. "Sorry. It's complicated – you're wrong, but not far wrong. Justice was a spirit trapped beyond the Fade and I thought that maybe if he went into the body of a friend, rather than playing the demon and haunting a corpse, things would turn out for the better. I…" He looks down and balls his hands into fists. "I had too much rage. What was once Justice was corrupted into a Spirit of Vengeance, intent on never letting another mage be ripped from their home, their families or their country."

Anders sighs and stretches his hands across his knees. "Karl… I was too late for him. Justice's presence wasn't enough to repair his connection. I… I had to end his life, to stop him living as a Tranquil. It was a cruel mercy, but a mercy nonetheless."

"You did what was best," Bethany whispers. "I wouldn't want to be made Tranquil either."

Hawke's gut spins before he can stop it. The thought of Bethany having to consider something like that goes against everything he wants to think about – he wants her to think about normal things a woman of her age should think about, not scenarios about losing her magic or her connection to the world.

"You cared for him, didn't you?" Bethany observes. Hawke looks at her in genuine surprise; amazed she managed to pick up something like that. Carver rolls his eyes and Varric looks just a little bit more interested, discretely taking notes in his journal.

Anders shrugs and hunches over a little more. "I did. In the Tower, the Templars watch your every movement – you have to take what pleasures you can. Karl… he was my first. We hadn't been together for the longest of times, but that cut still hurt."

"Anders…" Bethany says. "I'm sorry." She squeezes his hand in sympathy and Hawke is tempted to get between them, kick Anders' face in and tell Bethany she's never allowed anywhere near the abomination again. But he knows that would only make her go closer to Anders, if not spend more time with him.

"He was a good man… a good mage," Anders sighs. "You have no idea how lucky you were, to grow up outside the Circle." He rubs his eyes and presses against his knees. "I should go. Thank you for listening to me and for agreeing to not say anything to the Templars." He takes two steps from them before he stops and glances back. "Hawke… if I may have a word… in private?"

Hawke doesn't like the way Anders cocks his head as he says that. He nods gruffly, finishes his drink in one and tells everyone he'll be right back as he follows Anders out of Varric's suite and into the shadowy halls of the Hanged Man.

"Thank you," Anders starts.

Hawke holds up a hand and shakes his head. "Don't thank me Anders. You saved my brother's life – I owe you more than I can count for that. I only tried to reason with you earlier, rather than outright kill you because of that. There is, however, only so much leeway I can give you because of that."

"You're right," Anders says, shaking his head. "Besides, that is not why I wished to speak with you. I… I need to know; are you planning on taking Bethany with you into the Deep Roads?"

Hawke tenses like a coiled animal, ready to strike. He forces a little calm through himself as he growls, "What business is that of yours?"

"I was a Warden once," Anders tells him. "I saw things down there… what the darkspawn do to the women they capture. I'm not supposed to talk about it – Warden secrets and all – but you look like you know what you should share and what your shouldn't." He places his hand on Hawke's shoulder, slides it behind his neck and guides him through the corridors, dropping into hushed whispers as he does so.

"There are things the Wardens don't like being known – such as the way we become Wardens. However, this I feel you need to know. Have you ever considered how darkspawn breed?"

Hawke stops and finds his mind assailed by haunting mental images. He tries to shake them out of his head but he finds he can't quite get the image to shift. "Not until just now," he confesses. "Why?"

Anders bites his bottom lip and his hesitation is clear. "The darkspawn take women underground and into their lairs. They transform them into Broodmothers – vile perversions of nature that exist only to pop out more darkspawn. The process by which they are created is… vile, to say the least."

Hawke isn't quite sure he wants to hear this, but he gulps and nods his head regardless. "Go on," he says.

Anders sighs. "The darkspawn kidnap women and force them to eat tainted flesh. That helps the transformation… but they also rape the women. They turn them into monsters that crave tainted flesh until there's nothing left but a mindless ghoul that exists only to breed."

Hawke shudders at that. He feels goose bumps travel all over his body and vows to the Maker Himself that he will make sure Bethany never has to endure something like that. He decides that if this is true, he won't bring Aveline with them into the Deep Roads either. She'll be safer on the surface, away from all of this.

"Thank you," he whispers. "I know you're taking a risk by telling me this."

"More so than anything else?" Anders laughs, takes back his arm and runs his hand over his hair. "I never agreed with the Wardens keeping something like that secret, though I suppose it would only cause more panic when people see darkspawn. I just felt that if you were to venture into the Deep Roads, you should go prepared."

"Thank you," Hawke says once more. Anders nods and starts to move, though Hawke finds himself conflicted as the mage starts to walk away. He curses himself as he takes a step after him and catches him by the shoulder. "Anders," he says evenly, "Meredith is going to be searching now, harder than ever after what happened in the Chantry. We're travelling up Sundermount at dawn tomorrow – we have business with a clan of Dalish who are meant to be there, among other tasks. I… I think you should come with us, if only to be out of the city for a few days."

Anders looks surprised, to say the least. "Are you sure?" he says after a long pause.

Hawke sets his mouth into a fine line as he nods. "I'm sure – I wouldn't offer so otherwise. You helped me again by letting me know of those things. This way, at least you're out of the city for a few days. I also think you should get to know us better because I think we would benefit from your help in the Deep Roads."

Anders chuckles and rolls his eyes. "The Blighted Deep Roads. I suppose that if my maps are yours, I am too."

"Thank you," Hawke says once again. "I suppose that's it, really. We're meeting here at first light tomorrow. Will you be alright walking back to Darktown at this hour?"

Anders offers him a smile. "I've done this journey more times than I care to remember. Besides, the streets of Kirkwall are nothing compared to tunnels full of darkspawn or forests full of blight wolves and walking trees. I'll be fine."

"Alright then," Hawke says quickly. He watches to make sure Anders leaves before he heads back into Varric's suite, scratches Shepard behind the ears and announces the new change of plans.

"What?" Carver practically spits venom at him. "You're kidding, right? After the way he just _vaporised_ the Chantry?"

"That's exactly why I'm keeping him on our side," Hawke says as he folds his arms across his chest. "Think about it Carver; he decimated those Templars without much obvious strain. If he can do that to his enemies, we're really better off as his allies or friends."

"I still don't like it," Carver grumbles into his drink.

"Relax Junior," Varric says with a smile, "I'm sure that things will work out fine. Sure, Blondie might be an archdemon short of a Blight, but if memory serves he's a pretty decent healer. And like Hawke said; I really don't want him on our bad side."

"They're right," Bethany says diplomatically. "He's a strong mage, even without the fact he's an abomination. I… I can still learn healing from him, on occasion, but we're better off remaining civil with him, at the very least."

Hawke nods along with her, though from there the conversations quickly turn sour. Carver grumbles about it all, threatens that he'll keep an eye on Anders and stalks off out of the bar, muttering something about needing to blow off steam. Hawke shares a look with Varric and somehow knows that Carver's going to blow money and more in the Blooming Rose. He's content to pretend that his brother doesn't go there and spend money on whores for as long as he's content not to share that information.

Bethany, for her part, doesn't seem to have realised where Carver goes. Hawke stops her chasing after him and when she's tired enough, walks her back to their house. Once he's certain that she's safely home, he leaves Shepard with her and makes his way back to the Hanged Man to chat with Varric.

"Hawke!" the dwarf laughs as he sees him stroll towards the suite. "Back so soon? I know most can't resist my charms, but flattered as I am, I should tell you I only like supple dwarven girls."

Hawke laughs and rolls his eyes. "You're far too small and manly for me anyway, Varric. It'd be too much like doing a child… albeit an extremely hairy child."

"Touché, Hawke, touché." Varric chuckles as he starts moving papers into his desk and settles on dropping into a comfortable chair, gesturing for Hawke to sit opposite. "So what can I do for you, my friend? I hope you're aware first light is only in a few hours?"

"I know," Hawke says quickly as he falls into the seat opposite him. "I just needed to tell you something, but you can't let it go further. I _mean_ it Varric," he insists when he sees that familiar gleam in his eyes. "This can't go further than you or I – if it does, it's strictly need-to-know."

"Now you've got me all interested," Varric says. He leans forwards in his chair and links his hands together. "So go on Hawke, shoot. What's so important that we can't mention it around the others?"

"Broodmothers," Hawke says gravely.

"_Broodmothers_?" Varric laughs and shakes his head. "Hawke, I don't know what crazy you've been drinking this time, but Broodmothers are the stuff of legends – tales used to frighten dwarven children."

"Maybe." Hawke shrugs and wonders just how much of a secret it's meant to be if the dwarves already know all about them. "But I spoke to Anders earlier – he's seen one, by the way he spoke. He told me how they're made; darkspawn kidnapping, violating and force-feeding women tainted flesh until they transform into ghouls that do nothing that birth more darkspawn."

Varric's turned a shade lighter, Hawke notes. There's no jovial grin on his face, nor is there a spark in his eyes. He's all business now, which is something Hawke's not quite used to.

"We can't risk bringing any women with us," Hawke says. "Tell Bartrand not to include any female workers – make up stories if you need to – but I don't want anyone being transformed into something like that while we're around."

"Alright Hawke," Varric says. "I trust you on this; I'll speak with Bartrand when we get back and tell him all about the new limits. He won't like it, but it's probably for the best anyhow – I doubt most of the people he's hiring would be… _gentlemanly _around a woman if they've been trapped in the Deep Roads for too long."

"Thanks Varric." Hawke smiles appreciatively at him as he slides out of his chair and heads for the door. "I'll think of a way I can deter Bethany from going – I may just tell her the entire story, if I need to. Aveline will hopefully be busy with something, so that's our bases covered, at least."

Varric nods and rubs a hand across his chin. "And Blondie? You're sure about him?"

"Honestly? Not really," Hawke admits. "But like we said; he's a better ally than enemy. It's no wonder the Fereldan Tower fell, if it was full of abominations like that. Let's just hope he can keep that glowy friend of his under check – who knows what'll go wrong if he lets it free too much."

**-x-X-x-**

Carver's entirely certain this is all going to end badly.

He slings his pack across his back and waits for Varric to finally emerge from the Hanged Man. He's the last one of their little band for this venture into the mountains and apparently he's busying his time spreading the feelers and making sure nothing bad happens while they're away.

In the meantime, he settles for glaring at Anders. The mage – _abomination –_ stands a little distance from them all, glaring back at Aveline and doing a bad job of hiding his distaste for her.

"So, you're a guard then?" Anders practically snarls.

Aveline bristles immediately. "No, of course not. I'm an agent of the Divine here to kick your sorry ass back into shape."

Carver bites the inside of his cheek at the way the abomination bristles. He sees the way it looks towards Hawke or Bethany for help – his sister shrugs, like she doesn't know what to add to the conversation, whilst his brother pretends that he hasn't heard it as he speaks nonsense to his mabari.

"And I guess you'll be throwing every free mage into the Gallows now, won't you?" Anders growls.

"Of course," Aveline says with a tired sigh. "The fact that Bethany's here and I'm allowing an abomination to speak to me speaks volumes for how under the Templar's thumb I am."

Carver smirks to himself as Anders' face drops open a little in surprise. Both his siblings glance at him, realising he's the reason for Aveline knowing just what Anders is. He shrugs in reply, knowing that he's right. Aveline sees reason, even if she did reject his application to be a member of the guard. Unlike his brother, she doesn't try to work people for her own gain and then watch it blow up in her face. And unlike his sister, she doesn't watch the world through rose-coloured glasses and doesn't think that every mage will help her in some way.

He knows Aveline will cut down Anders at the first moment she feels he's a danger. He knows that he'd cut Anders down the moment he got a chance. At least between the two of them, Anders is sure to meet an abrupt end if he tries anything funny.

"Alright then," Varric says as he comes out of the Hanged Man, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Who's up for some nature? No one? Brilliant!"

"We have important business near Sundermount, dwarf," Aveline says tiredly. "Feel free to stay at home if you don't want to join in."

"And miss your happy smile?" Varric says, pressing his hands over his heart. "As if I could go a day without that."

Aveline sighs, though it's obvious she finds him amusing. Carver doesn't much trust him – Varric disarms people with smiles and happy stories, seeking out information he needs all the time. He's met Varric's sort before and won't hesitate to cut him down too if he threatens Bethany.

"We'll check Aveline's patrol route first, then we're continuing on up the mountains to reach the Dalish," Hawke announces. He slings his own pack over his shoulders, slides daggers into his belt and starts leading them through Lowtown and towards the spiralling stairs that lead into the nearby mountains.

Carver's been up there a few times, mostly when he was working for Meeran. He remembers the abrupt change from the gloom of Kirkwall to the sudden browns and greens of the forests and feels a pang of homesickness when he sees it again. Aveline and Varric are both talking to his brother, whilst Anders seems to be gravitating towards Bethany, speaking nonsense about freeing mages and gathering as much information as he can out of her. Bethany, for her part, seems willing to keep her distance and Carver notices that at least Aveline and Hawke are both throwing the occasional glare Anders' way.

He ignores them all and focuses instead on his footsteps. They're heavy in the soft earth underneath him, with leaves crunching underneath each step. The trees are a brilliant shade of orange and red, leaves falling gently to the ground even as they walk on by. The forest seems to stretch on for miles around them, though through the bare trees he can see the peaks of the mountain reaching for the sky itself.

"Hold!" Anders practically shouts out of nowhere. He's gone pale and he presses a hand to his head as he frowns deeply. "We need to move," he says quickly. He glances around, sees a broken tree and points up it. "Up there! Now!"

Carver's not the only one with obvious distrust, but he's the first to voice it. "And what are we hiding from, exactly?"

"Darkspawn," Anders spits. "Wardens can sense them – darkspawn can sense us. If you hide within the trees, you should be able to use me to lure them out and then surprise them."

It's not a bad plan, Carver is loath to admit. But it all falls apart the moment a whistling sound snaps nearby and Aveline screams at them to hit the floor. They do so with practiced ease, though Anders and Varric are a bit slower on the uptake. Aveline grunts as she whips out a shield and blocks the arrow, swearing as she tries to drop her pack and grab her sword all at once.

Shepard howls when the first darkspawn bursts out of the bushes. It looks exactly like Carver remembers; rotting black flesh dripping off its body, a stink of corruption that travels with the wind, bright yellow, broken teeth and sunken eyes that burn with nothing but anger and hunger.

His blade is in his hands before he's even conscious of the fact. Shepard beats him to the first darkspawn, his teeth ripping through the thing's throat in no time at all. Carver swears as he leaps into the air and cleaves one of the fiends in two, cursing them to the Void as he spins on his heel with his blade outstretched, slicing a number of their stomachs open.

Even with the wounds, they keep coming. One hisses at him and is taken down by a crossbow bolt to the face. He stabs his sword through the gut of another and smirks grimly as it and the three behind it burst into flames and fall screaming to the floor. He dashes at another, cleaving it in two as his brother leaps from the trees above them, plunges his daggers into the head of one, whirls around and kicks another square in the face.

Aveline roars at them as she charges through them, her shield up and scattering them all around her. Her sword flashes in the light and cuts them down without mercy, dropping chunks of darkspawn everywhere.

Carver wonders just whether or not Anders is actually going to do anything when the mage shouts something Carver doesn't understand and the sky above them turns into a horrible grey. Lightning bolts erupt into existence from the sky, plummeting down and scorching earth and darkspawn both.

Carver spins around as he slices through the face of another thing and sees them begin to seek out Anders. He smiles grimly as he watches them swarm Anders, then finds himself surprised as Anders raises a hand to the heavens and ice explodes into existence around him. The darkspawn freeze solid in less than a second, becoming perfect sculptures of rage and hatred. Varric loads something into Bianca that explodes into flames when he fires it and sprays the clearing with scattered pieces of darkspawn.

"I'd avoid the blood, were I you," Anders says as he kicks a piece of darkspawn off his boot. "That's what carries the Taint. Well, that and their flesh and generally everything about them, but the blood's poisonous to anyone who's not a Warden."

Carver grimaces as he finds his sword coating in the horrible, oozing black stuff. He wipes his blade on the floor and watches as the lush green grass withers and dies before his very eyes. He shudders and turns his gaze away from them as he finds Aveline hunched over a darkspawn, cautiously poking its body with her sword.

"This one's attacked other humans lately – I recognise this insignia as that of a known group of bandits who operate in this area." She hums to herself as she stands up, wipes her blade on the darkspawn corpse and sheathes it. "With any luck, they did most of our job for us. Even still, we should check. Is there any way you can track the way they came?"

Anders shakes his head. "The taint isn't an exact science. I can tell when darkspawn are nearby, in what direction they happen to be and how many of them there are, but I can't follow it after their death."

"We can track," Carver says. "My brother and I used to hunt from time to time. Our father taught us something about tracking."

"Very well." Aveline nods and pokes the dead darkspawn with her boot. "Any chance you can tell where these came from?"

He nods and carefully flips it over with his boots. "Ugly bastards," he can't help but comment.

He looks away from it and up into the woods as Hawke points ahead and suggests, "That way?"

"That way," Carver confirms. He leads them through the woods, silently pleased with himself about being able to prove his worth, for once at least. He remembers the days in which Father would take them out hunting, teaching them as much as he could. Hawke was a natural with a bow, though he could never really focus quickly enough on more than one thing at a time. Carver would always end up tracking the deer or rabbit and letting Hawke take the shot or set the traps. It was at least one way that he could legitimately claim he was better than his brother without people telling him otherwise.

"They came that way," Hawke says, pointing to their east.

"No they didn't," Carver says, smirking in victory. "Look at the tracks – they split into two, almost like they've come from the north and east both. But then if you look a bit further down, you can see they've circled round to get here – they started off coming from west of here, looped round to the east and then headed south to us."

"Well what do you know," Varric laughs from behind him. "Junior's a regular Dalish."

Carver's ears burn at that nickname. He hates the fact that he's likened to his brother in yet another way – he _is_ his own person, after all. Everyone he knows always tells him stories of how amazing his brother is, tells him he should look up to him and try to be more like him. It's why he enjoys hanging out with Saemus – while he might respect Hawke, he seems to be more enthralled by the qunari. And elven prostitutes, but that's neither here nor there.

The woods start to thin out as he continues to track the monsters. He sees the little bits of blood on the trees, the areas in which the plants seem to have died and follows it all into a little clearing that sits above what Aveline tells them is a common trade route. He doesn't need to look far until the smell of death and burning hits him, with the remains of what were possibly humans a few metres away of their hastily abandoned campsite.

"These are the raiders," Aveline confirms as she kicks their bodies over. "I recognise some of them – what remains at least. They've been giving us trouble for the past few months, though they've always seemed to slip away when we were about to arrest them."

"_Hello_," Hawke says from nearby the campfire. He snatches a piece of burning parchment from the fire and throws soil over it before it can burn away. Once he reads it, he sets his mouth in a grim line and holds it out for Aveline. "You may want to read this."

"Why?" she asks as she takes it from him. Carver finds it interesting as she turns a darker shade of red the further on she gets through the letter. Finally when she's finished, she screws her face up and screams at the sky, "That rat bastard!"

"Jeven," Hawke explains at Varric's curious look. "He's been selling out the guard, overlooking trade routes and apparently giving the Coterie ample information for tips to get himself promoted."

"As interesting as that is," Carver grunts, kicking the corpse of a badly burnt man, "I think we've got a bigger problem here."

"Oh?" Hawke sighs. "What's so much bigger than Aveline's boss being corrupt and us having to deliver this Blighted amulet to the Dalish?"

Carver kicks the body to him. "This man was burnt to death, by the looks of things. I didn't see any darkspawn mages, did you?"

"They're called emissaries," Anders tells them. "And no, we didn't fight any of them. In fact—" he stops speaking and stands completely rigid, almost like someone's performing blood magic on him.

"In fact?" Hawke asks.

"Darkspawn!" Anders shouts as out of nowhere fire explodes all around them. Carver falls on his backside instantly, the weight of his sword crushing him into the floor. He hears Aveline shout and scream about her stupid parchement as he tries to pull himself back to his feet and finds himself staring at a… _thing_ from nightmares.

It looks like a corpse, but it's not at the same time. Its skull is missing a few teeth and a constant string of thick black drool falls from its open maw. Its eyes are missing; instead there are only a few swollen, diseased maggots crawling around inside. The thing wears clothes, though they are torn and expose the withered, blackened skeleton beneath the clothes. It skin hangs off it loosely, almost like it doesn't fit anymore.

The thing punches the air with an arm carrying a scythe and howls, covering Carver in a breath that stinks of death. He falls over himself as he tries to escape and kicks the thing as hard as he can between the legs.

For all the good it did, he may as well have flicked it. The thing keeps advancing on him and even when someone sets the damn thing on _fire_ it keeps coming at him like something from the Void! His brother suddenly drops on the thing, swearing madly as Shepard rips one of the thing's legs completely free. Carver rolls out of the way as the thing falls, feels the little stones in the floor scratch at his skin and reaches blindly for his sword.

He finds nothing but a sparking log of firewood. He hisses, brings it above his head and smashes the demonic thing's face in, even as he lies next to it. The thing howls and wails, knocks his brother off its back and pulls itself to its feet, skull broken and falling in pieces even as it picks up its scythe.

Just as Carver is certain the thing is about to kill him, Aveline cleaves its arm off. The thing shrieks at her and lightning explodes in its mouth; little pieces of Blighted bones rain down in the aftermath. Even with no top half, the thing still twitches on the floor and tries to stand back up again until Anders stomps through the thing's brittle ribs, grabs its flailing, broken leg and lights it up like an evil candle.

When the thing finally dies, Anders bends over, sweat dripping from his hair as he pants for breath. "_That_," he says between pants, "was an emissary. Nasty buggers."

"No shit," Varric says, before suddenly he bursts into laughter. Hawke follows him quickly, as does Bethany and Carver's confused for all of a moment before he finds he can't help but join in. The thing was just so damn _terrifying_ that if he doesn't laugh, he knows he'll never be able to sleep again.

"Blighted darkspawn!" Aveline screams and kicks the thing's remains clear over the campfire. "There goes all the proof I had on Jeven!"

"We'll find more," Hawke says with a wave of his hand. "If he was stupid enough to leave proof like that with one group, he'll be stupid enough to slip up again. Just you wait Aveline, we'll catch him yet."

Carver ignores them in favour of grabbing his fallen blade and attaching it back to its holster. Anders seems busy healing any wounds they have whilst Bethany sets fire to the remains of everything darkspawn and touched by the things. Wherever the Dalish happen to be, he decides the amulet has to be worth all of this trouble.

**-x-X-x-**

They've been hiking for three days when Carver's certain his legs feel like they're going to drop off. Varric leads them up the paths, claiming his sources know where the Dalish are hiding. Strangely enough, Hawke takes a different path from him at one point, telling them that the amulet – of all things – is telling him that the Dalish lay that way.

Carver isn't sure what to make of it, but given the amulet belongs to a shapeshifting dragon-witch, he isn't about to question something like that.

"Hold up," Hawke says suddenly, his hand held in the air. Shepard is tense, growling at something Carver can't quite see. All around him he sees only bare trees, a few large boulders and the start of a path up the mountainside. There's a flicker of sound, like a rodent scurrying through the fallen leaves and Shepard pins his ears flat back against his skull.

"Someone's watching us," Aveline notes, her shield already up and ready.

Carver's just about to draw his sword when three figures slide out from behind the trees before them. They all look similar; tanned skin, unnaturally wide, bright eyes, amazingly slender and with ears that end in fine points. All of them have intricate designs that swirl over their faces and all of them have bows drawn and ready to fire on them.

"_Shemlen_," one of the Dalish says, an older man with soft grey tones in his hair. "Be gone from this place. We have no need for you or your people – leave now and we shall not kill you where you stand."

Carver's not entirely certain they can get out of this without injury. He sees lithe figures move in the trees around them; the flashes of light that means metallic arrows being pulled back and aimed at their hearts. He glances at his brother, ready to fight to the death to protect Bethany as they both start to slide her between them, almost without thinking.

"I was told to come here by Flemeth," Hawke says as he reaches beneath his top and produces the amulet. "She tasked me with bringing this to your Keeper – Marethari."

"A _shem_, carrying the amulet?" The hunter doesn't seem too impressed with this development. Carver wants to tell him exactly what he thinks of him, but logic stops him from being stupid. The elf shakes his head, waves a hand and the elves surrounding them slink out from behind and in the trees. "Very well _shem_, we shall take you to meet the Keeper. Know that our bows will be trained on you at all times – if you try to disrespect us or our ways, we will kill you."

"Understood," Hawke says with a nod. Carver catches the look he gives Varric, the one that clearly reads _these people are crazy._ He snorts to himself, decides it's pretty accurate and keeps one hand near his blade, just in case.

The elven camp seems strange, for want of a better word. It's almost like a small city built within the trees and rocks. Carver can see tents pitched against the rock faces, little wooden hunts built into the trees themselves and wooden bridges that connect the trees together. Large ship-like things rest in the corner of the camp, built upon three wheels and with reigns attached to the front that seem far too small and delicate for ox. A number of campfires line the clearing, with small groups of elves huddled around each one.

Every elf watches them with impossibly wide eyes. Their fear and distrust is evident, even from a distance. The archers stop practising against the trees and stare, the tanner stops skinning animal pelts and an elf stops moulding a bow so quickly the wood snaps back and hits him in the face.

The elf in charge leads them to a large tent decorated with texts Carver can't hope to ever understand. The elf taps the tent flap gently, calling to the person inside in lilting, elven tongues.

The woman that emerges isn't quite what Caver expected. The title Keeper gave him images of a powerful elven woman, able to fend off hoards of beasts to keep her clan safe. Instead this woman is smaller than most elves, slightly on the thin side and with long white hair that's pulled back into a bun. Her tattoos seem to have faded with age and her eyes, while still bright, are a shade darker green than most.

She wears a cloak made from bear fur, interestingly enough. Carver wonders just whether she killed the beast herself or had someone do it for her before she inclines her head slightly.

"Greetings travellers," she says in a soft, soothing voice. "I am Keeper Marethari. I take it you are the ones who carry the amulet of _Ahsa'bellanar _ - Flemeth, as she is known in the common tongue."

"Keeper," Hawke says, bowing his head. "I'm Hawke." He introduces them all each in turn and Carver notices the tension in his voice when it comes to Anders. He's pleased that his brother isn't quite letting his guard down – just yet. "I'm surprised you know that, to be honest."

Marethari smiles and cups a hand in the air, almost like she's catching the wind and considering it. Given that she's obviously a mage, Carver wouldn't be surprised if she is. She turns her slow gaze across them all and somehow Carver feels like she sees more than she should – just like the dragon who sent them here in the first place.

"I listen to the whispers on the wind, the changes in the trees and the calls of the wilds. A true Keeper can commune with the world as easily as you or I could exchange words. But that is neither here nor there." She holds out her palm expectantly, commanding through passive-aggressive force. "May I see the amulet?"

Hawke removes it from beneath his layers and Carver's surprised to see it isn't attached to his skin by now. He can't remember the last time he saw his brother without that damned amulet on and he sure as hell can't remember the last time he mentioned being _able_ to take it off.

Hawke's expression betrays the surprise he feels at being able to remove the cursed thing. He drops it gently into Marethari's waiting hand, at which point she closes her eyes and sighs gently into the wind.

"A kept word is the strongest and most destructive force to all," she whispers cryptically. "_Asha'bellanar's_ strengths lie in the favours she can call in from people all over Thedas. I am bound to her by my word, much the same as you are." She turns the amulet over in her hands, strangely pensive as she does so. Carver's certain he can see her shoulders tensing, almost like she wishes to destroy the thing then and there, but she finally lets her shoulders drop and sighs once more.

"I am afraid your task is not over yet," Marethari says softly. "You will need to take this to the top of the mountain and perform a Dalish ritual for the departed."

Varric's the first one to snort and turn his gaze skyward. "I might be shorter than the rest of you, but I'm not wrong in saying that's a beast of a mountain, am I?"

"No," Bethany says sharply. "It seems to be at least a few day's climb."

"At least we'll be away from scrutinising bucket-heads for that time," Anders says. He rubs his chin as he stares at the mountain, looking oddly wistful. "Last time I went anywhere near something like this, a crazy Dalish mage tried to kill us all. Then she became a Warden. Funny how life works like that."

Aveline jabs him in the ribs and glowers as she gestures her head to Marethari. The Keeper, however, just smiles distantly. "I have heard the tales of Velanna. I hope she is well?"

Anders shrugs. "She was the last time I saw her. Still screeching about her sister and threatening to leave to find her, though I'm afraid she's a ghoul by now, at best."

Carver rolls his eyes and clears his throat loudly. "If we could get back to the point?"

"Ah yes." Marethari bows her head, missing the scathing look Hawke shoots at Carver. "Obviously, you do not know how to perform the Dalish rite, thus I shall be sending my First with you. However, after your task is completed, I have a request to make of you."

"And this request is?" Hawke asks.

"I want you to take Merrill into Kirkwall with you. There have been certain… differences of opinion and now Merrill feels it best if she leaves the clan." Marethari drops her gaze for the briefest moment before she cups Hawke's hands and drops the amulet gently back into them. "If _Asha'bellanar_ trusts you with this, you are more than capable of protecting Merrill."

"Okay," Hawke says slowly as he slides the amulet back around his neck, almost without thinking. "Just who is this Merrill though?"

Marethari sweeps her hand back and taps gently on the folds of the tent. There's a crash inside, a woman's voice whispering quick curses and another crash as the tent flap folds outwards. The elf from within shrieks as she tumbles out of the tent, cloth wrapped around her ankles and brings what seems to be half of a bed falling out of the tent with her.

She blinks, dark green eyes huge as she looks up at them all with a pot dangling precariously off her head.

"Hello," she says sheepishly.

Carver can't help but stare at her. She's thin for an elf, with black hair tucked behind her ears and framing her face. Delicate tattoos swirl into intricate patterns on her face that seem only to make her eyes all the mystically larger.

He's fairly certain he's fallen in love and wants nothing more than to sweep her off her feet, ravish her and spend the best part of next week in bed with her.

"I'll help you up," he offers before anyone else can. She – the most amazing creature he's ever seen – smiles and dimples form instantly. She's bright red as she takes his hand and lets him help her to her feet. "Are you alright?" he asks her.

"Oh me? I'm fine, this sort of thing happens to me all the time," she says, removing the pot from her head and staring at it like she's never seen it before. "Not that I'm clumsy, it's just that things tend to break or go wrong when I'm nearby."

"Merrill," Marethari says in a long-suffering tone. Merrill straightens instantly as Marethari strokes the top of her arm. "You are to guide these travellers to the top of the mountain and perform the rite. They will take you to Kirkwall afterwards, if you are certain this is the path you wish to take."

"I'm certain Keeper," Merrill says quickly. "This is a path I need to take." She pulls herself up tall and turns to everyone else. "So, would you like to leave now? _Asha'bellanar_ waits for no one, supposedly. It's not a difficult path up the mountain, but it is dangerous and will take some time. Hopefully you brought sturdy shoes." She looks down at their feet and then to her own, wriggling her bare toes as she does so. "Of course, I'm an elf, so we're more nimble and can move more quietly without shoes – not that you couldn't because you're not elves!" She takes in a breath and shakes her head. "Let's just pretend I didn't say something stupid. I'm Merrill by the way."

Hawke smiles at her and bows his head. "I'm Hawke." He makes their introductions quickly and sidles up alongside her as he gestures for her to lead them towards the mountain.

"Oh! A mabari!" Merrill squeals as Shepard presses his nose into her hands. "They're darling creatures – we lived in Fereldan not long ago. I always wanted a mabari – they're meant to be smart and understand everything you say. I had a pet squirrel once, I don't think it was quite the same, really."

Carver doesn't know whether he wants to pat her on the head or hug her. Bethany and Hawke share a look that clearly questions Merrill's sanity whilst Shepard leaps around her. It's only when Aveline reminds them that she does have to be back in Kirkwall at some point that Merrill gathers herself, runs into the tent to fetch a large staff and begins to lead them away from the camp and towards the mountain path.

It seems like no time has passed before the camp is but a distant blob behind them. The path up the mountain seems to have been carved long ago; Carver can see where stairs once stood in the rock, now claimed back by the grass and earth. He tests his weight on the remains of one and watches as it crumbles away, revealing a pod of bugs that scurry away from the light.

He pulls a face and stares at the rest of the mountain. It all seems the same; a blend of browns and greens where the trees are and monotonous grey where the rocks are. It stretches on far above him, high enough that he feels dizzy when he looks at the peak.

He finds himself walking next to Merrill without realising it. When he does, his throat is suddenly dry and he tries his best to swallow and return some moisture to it. He glances at Merrill from the corner of his eye and sees the way she bites her lip as she walks up the stone path, using the long staff that's almost as tall as her as a walking stick. He slows down a little and lets her take point, allowing him to watch the way her dark green cloak flaps around her back, occasionally showing him glimpses of the point where the bottom of her back and the top of her legs meet. He finds it interesting enough that he manages to trip over his own feet and is only saved from complete humiliation by his brother's quick reflexes.

"_Smooth_," Hawke snorts.

Carver growls and snatches his arm away, stalking up to Merrill as he does so. She casts them both a quick confused look before she goes back to navigating the mountain.

"So…" he says, then realises he doesn't know what to say. She looks at him with those wide, unbelievably attractive eyes and he's lost.

"Did you want to say something?" she asks him.

"Uh, right!" He shakes his head and tries to ignore the laughs he's certain he hears from behind. "So, uh, Merrill, right? Do you… come here often?"

She blinks at him and he's certain it's the longest moment of his life. His cheeks are bright red, his ears are burning and he can hear the way his brother and Varric are trying to hold in their laughter.

Then Merrill frowns at him; her forehead creases up and her nose wrinkles just a little. "Here? As in the mountain path? I can't say I do – there's all sorts of terrible nasty things crawling around up here. I'm usually in camp trying to learn what I can, though that's not to say I don't _want_ to explore, just that I can't."

She blinks once more and Carver's certain she's reading his mind. "Why?" she asks slowly. "Is there something I've missed?"

"No!" he says quickly. "I was just… trying to make conversation, I guess. I'm not very good at it."

"Oh that's not true!" she says, smiling as she does so. "I mean, we're talking right now, aren't we? Of course, people are always telling me that I talk too fast and too much and that I usually get distracted about things and tend to ramble and I'm doing that right now, aren't I?"

Carver's lost in her lilting accent and without thinking blurts, "Marry me."

She draws in a breath and he realises just how stupid he is. "Sorry?" She cocks her head and stares up at him with those impossibly big eyes. "Is there something I've missed?"

"Uh, no," he says. He's bright red again and he _knows_ they're all laughing behind him now. "I said uh… carrying? Yeah, carrying! You seem like you need help carrying your pack – are you alright with it?"

She pulls the straps of her bag a bit tighter over her shoulders and shrugs. "Oh, no! I'm alright, thank you. It's better for me to carry my own stuff, because then if something goes missing, at least I know I've done something wrong. Besides, you look like you're carrying enough with that sword. It's certainly big – I'm not even sure I could lift it! How do you even use a sword that big? Does it take both hands?"

Varric's and Hawke's laughs echo all around the mountains. Carver blushes all the way from his head down to his toes and tries his best to will them both into bursting into flames. Anders just has a wry smile on his face whilst Bethany seems like she's trying not to laugh. Aveline, however, seems as confused as Merrill does.

"Did I miss something?" Merrill asks. "Was it something dirty?"

"It's nothing," Hawke says, waving his hands as he does so. "Just… an inside joke. Please, ignore us."

Carver's certain if that were possible he'd live a much happier life. He grumbles under his breath about his brother and stalks on ahead a few paces, only to stop when he sees an unnatural fog descend around him.

He blinks and waves a hand in front of his face. He can barely see it, let alone everyone else around him. He hears them wonder about the sudden change and only just hears Merrill mumble, "This isn't a very good sign, is it?"

And a hand bursts out of the ground beneath them.

Carver shrieks in a pitch far higher than he'd like to admit. He stares at the skeletal hand as it grabs at handfuls of earth and pulls the rest of its body free. The thing is a rotting corpse, with flesh dripping to the floor and a skeletal jaw clicking back into place. The things eyes are moulding – maggots crawl around in the flesh beneath and it raises a skeletal hand, brandishing a weathered blade.

"Maker's breath!" Carver hisses as the thing screams. He barely brings his blade up to block the assault and loses footing under the weight of the blow. He grits his teeth and charges forwards with all his might. The thing screams at him as its blade comes lose, then once more as he kicks it where its liver should be. The thing hisses, covering him in stinking, rotting breath before he draws back his blade and sinks it deep into the rotting neck flesh. Even with a blade in the neck, it continues to fight, stopping only when he carves its head off and kicks it down the mountainside.

The fog starts to fade away and the first thing Carver sees is Merrill stood in the thick of it, storms whirling around her like flies around honey. Her face is etched in perfect concentration and she seems like she either doesn't notice the corpses about to slice her to pieces or simply doesn't care.

Then she thrusts her staff into the air and unleashes a battle cry that makes his skin tingle and his hairs stand on end.

"_May the Dread Wolf take you!"_

The earth itself heeds her call as thick roots rupture from beneath them and snare the skeletons instantly. The things scream as they struggle to break free, but the roots squeeze tighter and tighter until the skeletons crumble to dust, twitching all the while.

In the blink of an eye, the fog disperses and reveals everyone else giving Merrill wide-eyed stares. She lets out a long breath and looks up, blinking innocently as she cocks her head.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks.

"You're a mage," Bethany whispers.

"Yes," Merrill says, as if it's strange for anyone _not_ to be one. "All Firsts and Keepers are – all elves had the gift in the days of Arlathan. Magic is revered by elves; not treated with fear and hatred like with humans. Not that I'm saying that _you_ hate and fear magic, but humans generally do – not that I don't think of you as humans but – I'm going to stop talking now."

Hawke wipes his daggers on a leaf and laughs as he slips them back into his belt. "Feel free to turn any of our enemies into toads – I certainly won't be complaining."

"But I didn't – _oh_, I get it." She giggles and it's possibly the most entrancing sound Carver's ever heard. He wants to hug her all the more upon hearing it, but at the same time wants to hit his brother for making her laugh before he could. "I'll try not to hit anyone, on our side I mean. Besides, you've already got two mages with you, so it's not like I'll be the only one, is it?"

"Of course not!" Varric says. "At this rate, we can have ourselves a mage tea party!"

Merrill cocks her head at him. "But wouldn't that just invite the Templars? If all the mages turned up anyway."

Aveline sighs and gestures up the mountain. "If we're about done here, we've got a task to get to. I don't fancy standing around talking and letting more corpses come back to life to attack us."

"They're not coming back to life – they're just possessed," Merrill says quickly. "The Veil is thin here." She starts hiking up the mountain once more, occasionally throwing a quick glance back. "Our elders used to come here for _Uthenera _– the eternal sleep. But since the Veil has become so weak here…"

"The dead have started to come back to life," Anders finishes for her. He scoffs and turns his gaze scornfully over the mountain. "You'd think the elves would plan these things better."

"It's not like the Veil was weak back then!" Merrill squeaks. "It's only been happening recently, supposedly. I don't think even my ancestors were capable of seeing hundreds of years into the future." She sighs and shakes her head. "Anyway, this isn't helping us travel. Let us move onward."

Moving onward is the only thing they seem capable of for the next few days. Carver's certain his legs are going to murder him in his sleep, but on the positive side at least he's been able to speak with Merrill a little more. She seems like she needs constant protection from the world, even if she is capable of frying most creature's brains from inside their skulls.

He doesn't understand how she can keep up such happiness in the face of everything. Even when they walked into the hunter's camp and they spoke to her with nothing but abuse, she kept her head high and her shoulders straight, like their words couldn't affect her. He was tempted to break all of their noses, but Merrill had told them all that she was leaving the clan through differences of opinion, and that was it on the matter.

Until the day when they reached the summit.

Carver sighs and wipes sweat from his brow as he pulls his blade free of another mutant spider. Bethany's still burning one that came too close to her – she doesn't like spiders and Carver remembers all the times he filled her bed with them when they were younger. Even now, with the things dead and positively burnt to ashes, she still stabs their corpses with her staff.

Hawke pants as he jogs back to their small clearing, Varric in tow behind him. They've been scouting ahead and by the looks of it, ran into trouble of their own.

Hawke leans on his knees and throws a glance at Merrill. "Next time, please warn us there may be dragonlings atop the mountain."

Shepard barks from a few paces behind them. He carries the remains of a dragonling in his mouth and happily drops to the floor near their extinguished campfire and begins to snack on the remains.

"They're here already?" Merrill says, tilting her head much like a curious mabari. "They shouldn't be – their eggs aren't due to hatch for another six weeks. At least, that's what Marethari told us."

"Perhaps the Veil is forcing them to hatch prematurely," Anders muses. He ghosts his hands along a few boulders and frowns as he taps a finger gently along a hairline fracture. "I've seen things like it before – causing mutations to plants and smaller creatures, making them more violent or speeding up their life cycles."

"The reasons why aren't much of a concern Blondie," Varric sighs. He drops down on a rock and fiddles with Bianca almost instinctively. "The things being there and trying to eat us, however, are."

"We couldn't get all that far anyway," Hawke says. "There was a barrier near a gravesite – a magical one at that. We couldn't get past it and any bolts Varric shot into it exploded upon contact."

"Oh, that means we're close," Merrill says. She leaps to her feet, wipes herself free of blood and practically skips ahead. "We had to erect the barrier up here to stop the stronger things from invading our camp. I didn't think we were anywhere near it just yet."

Carver can't help but roll his eyes. He's come to notice that while Merrill may be sweet, her general sense of anything else is a little bit off – especially given that she's managed to get them lost at least ten times within the past day.

It's barely a five minute walk until they find the gravesite Hawke mentioned. Carver squints over the upturned rocks and sees the multiple memorials, all with large stones marking the dead and young saplings growing over the graves. He shudders at the thought of being buried in the earth, having the worms feeding on his body and turns away from the sight. It makes him miss Fereldan that little bit more, where at least they have the courtesy to cremate their dead.

Once he looks away from the graves he sees the large mystical barrier preventing their entry. Anders and Bethany are both cautiously poking it, seeing if they can find a way around it. The thing hums and crackles with energy, red lightning sparks shooting over the barrier at each touch.

Anders swears and snatches his finger away, sticking it instantly in his mouth. "_Ow_!" he hisses at the barrier, glaring at it scornfully. "This isn't magic I'm familiar with."

"I can bring it down," Merrill offers gently. She takes a step towards the barrier and stops before it, almost like she doesn't want to do anything else. Carver wonders just what could be so bad about it when she draws a dagger from her belt and slides it across her palm. There's a flash of red as she presses her bleeding palm against the barrier and a blinding flash of light follows as it fades out of existence.

Once his sight comes back, he stares at Merrill with much the same horror and shock that everyone else does. She's a blight-damned _blood mage_!

"Maker's balls," he hisses to himself, because somehow it's not enough to put him off. In fact, he only wants her more, which he's certain has to be a very bad sign.


	5. The Pirate

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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_Chapter Five; The Pirate  
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**-x-X-x-**_  
><em>

"_We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."_

Hawke wonders just what the witch had meant when she said that. Everything she does seem to be clouded in mystery. He only hopes that he never has to bump into her again or even suffer with what her end game plan will be.

He sighs and looks around the dirty hovel. Bits of the roof are falling dawn, rain drips occasionally from above and the sounds of mice can be heard from somewhere in the walls.

All in all, it's practically a palace, considering it's in the elven alienage.

"My contacts say that this place is free to rent – the previous owners were all slavers. They died in mysterious circumstances," Varric says.

Hawke smiles and says nothing. The only thing mysterious about the slavers' deaths was how they'd all died without even managing to realise they were under attack. At least he'd managed to get hold of all their coin before they'd been found by the guard. And naturally, hide the ledgers and donate them to Aveline. She may not have approved of vigilantism most of the time, but she seemed able to understand in certain cases it was necessary.

"Is this really where the elves live?" Merrill whispers. She's crestfallen – that much is obvious. To go from such a tight community to a settlement regarded as no better than a stain. It's still far greater than most alienages around – at least in this one, the elves only have to share a house with their families. Hawke knows of the alienages in Val Royeux – where the elves are packed ten to a room and executed on the spot if they complain.

"It's not too bad," Carver says. "There's far worse places to live in. At least you've got a roof over your head. You could be living in the sewers of Darktown."

"I suppose," Merrill says, frowning. "It's a nice enough place – apart from the rats. And the mould. But I'm not saying I don't like it!" She holds her palms up in the air and her eyes nearly double in size. "Really! I don't know how I could possibly thank you all."

Carver, quite predictably, nearly trips over his own tongue as he attempts to assuage Merrill that really, it's no trouble at all and that of course he'll be around to help her with _anything_, should she need it.

Hawke wonders if his brother only goes for the ditsy girls because they're usually the only ones who can't see how truly obvious he's being. He shares a look with Varric and knows in an instant that the dwarf is already clued in. Bethany looks like she's gathered as much information as she needs to and is silently stood in the corner of the doorway with Shepard, trying her best to hold herself together.

Aveline's back in the barracks, reporting the bandits' unfortunate run in with darkspawn. Of course, if she were here, Hawke knows she would likely miss everything that was going on. And while Anders may be able to understand, Hawke's rather glad he's disappeared back to his clinic in the sewers.

A week has never seemed as long as it did travelling back to Kirkwall with him. _Blood mage_ this and _demon_ that, which is slightly more than a little bit hypocritical, considering the man does have a full blown Fade Spirit living _inside_ him – regardless of its supposedly beneficial origins.

Hawke watches Merrill as she slides her pack into a corner of the hovel and looks at the place. She's quick to cover up the disappointment in her face, but he can read it so easily. He's fully aware of Carver's obvious infatuation with her and honestly, he's a little bit scared by it.

Merrill's nice, there's no denying that. But she's a _blood mage_. While that alone is always cause for alarm, Merrill is so _ignorant_ towards everything that Hawke's not certain whether he wants to wrap her up in blankets or just slap some sense into her.

"Will you come visit me in a few days?" Merrill asks them all. Really, it sounds like a very polite way of saying, _'Get the hell out of this squat and let me cry myself to sleep about my shit decisions in life.'_

Of course, Hawke doesn't point out what it sounds like. He merely nods his head like everyone else.

"Merrill?" he says as everyone turns to leave. "Can I speak with you a moment? Alone?"

She nods quickly, confusion clear on her face. Hawke sighs as he catches the _glower_ Carver sends him. He really has to wonder whether at his brother actually knows him at all sometimes. Yes, Merrill is rather pretty, but Hawke likes women with _curves._ As far as he's concerned, women shouldn't be so slim he's going to be afraid of breaking them, should he do anything with them.

Hawke smiles at her as soon as they're alone. She looks so uncomfortable and confused at once that it's actually quite adorable. He sighs and decides that maybe it's easiest to get the hardest questions out of the way first.

"So…" he says slowly, "the blood magic."

"I was wondering when you'd mention that."

It's quite amazing how quickly Merrill's voice can change. Usually she's so happy and… well, clueless, that Hawke wonders if there's even a brain in there sometimes. But then as soon as you mention something bad about blood magic or demons, suddenly she's colder than the spells she likes to throw at corpses.

Hawke sighs and crosses his arms. "I'm not going to lecture you Merrill. You're a grown woman. You can make your own decisions." She relaxes a bit, which he supposes is a good thing. At least there's less of a chance of her going all wrist-slicey and controlling his thoughts.

If she even can. He considers the notion for a moment that maybe she's as naïve to blood magic as she actually appears.

"That's… good, I suppose," Merrill says. "What do you want me to talk about then?"

He shrugs. "Is it really necessary?"

The rage that passes through her eyes is actually quite frightening. "Is it really necessary? Well you tell me, Hawke. Is it necessary to restore the glory of my ancestors? Is it necessary to recover everything that was taken from us? Is it necessary to make sure that we can make the world better for all elves? I think it is pretty _necessary_, thank you!"

He sighs and looks away quickly. He wishes there was an easier way to do this. Maybe an instruction manual. But of course, it's not like people ever get the chance to study blood mages. They're usually too busy becoming thralls, killing said mage or being killed themselves.

"That's not what I meant," he admits. "I respect what you're doing Merrill, I really do. You'll do anything to help your clan – your family – whether they like it or not. I… can relate. What I'm asking is that… is there any other way you can do this that _doesn't_ require the use of blood magic?"

She looks at him like he's the one with questionable intelligence. "You think I haven't thought about this, Hawke? If I had piles of lyrium lying around, I'd have used that! But I didn't. Blood magic was the only thing I had strong enough to help myself. If it's for the good of my people, I'll do whatever needs doing, no matter the cost."

"That's all I wanted to know," he says. The air feels slightly thicker between them, but at least the sense of awkwardness has finally passed. They've mentioned what neither of them really wanted to and now they can just deal with the consequences.

"I've made a few contacts," he tells her. "If you find yourself in need of any magical books, let me know. I have a few people that may be able to get you a copy from the Gallows."

Shock is the first thing that filters into her face. "But… don't they need those books?"

"Not really." Hawke shrugs. "They've got enough money that when something goes missing, it gets replaced. I often help Bethany out by finding her a book or two for her studies. I don't see why I can't extend the same courtesy to you."

"I… thank you, Hawke," Merrill says. She fiddles with the bottom of her tunic, almost like a guilty child that's been caught stealing. "Though why are you doing this for me? I mean, is this a sort of human thing? Because I've always been told that you're all extremely selfish and I've met flat ears who act so rudely and not at all like the Dalish that I assumed everyone is like that. Not that you're selfish! But…"

"Merrill," Hawke says calmly. He tries not to laugh at the expression she wears. It's almost like she thinks saying another word will cause him to burst into flames or something. "I'm helping you because you're my friend. I _want_ to help you. Especially if it can get you away from blood magic and still help you. I grew up with mages, Merrill. I know the dangers of it. I don't want to see you suffer for it."

"I…" Merrill bites her bottom lip and manages to look just that little bit more lost. "Thank you," she breathes. "I'll… I'll look through what I know. I wouldn't have thought any human would be interested in helping the elves but… I appreciate this Hawke. I really do."

He smiles, nods at her and turns to leave. He's nearly by the door when she stops him by calling, "Hawke?" he stops, turns and waits for her as she nervously dances on the same spot she's been stood on for the past five minutes.

"Will you come visit me, soon?" she asks. "Not just to bring me books but… as a friend? I could use the company. It's… so _lonely_ here. I'm used to being around people all the time, not having an entire house to myself."

He manages to grin a little at her. "Sure," he says. "Varric and I will stop by tomorrow. I think we could probably do with setting up a few traps – just in case you get any unwanted visitors. Don't be afraid to talk to Carver, either. He seems to like you – I get the feeling he'd enjoy spending time with you."

Given the look she gives him, Hawke's quite certain Merrill doesn't have the faintest clue about what he means. He sighs to himself, bids her goodnight and makes his way into the chilly night air of Kirkwall's alienage.

It's quite something to see – the half wooden, half stone houses that are built atop each other until they rival the height of even the houses in Hightown. But while the houses there gleam in the darkness, the shacks in Lowtown seem to merge into the shadows, almost as if they know they're unworthy of being seen.

The alienage is built within the lowest parts of Lowtown; close enough to the canals that the stink sticks to the enclosure like a bad smell. The stairs out of the alienage cross over the widest part of the canal and have a massive gate at the top – closed nightly for the elves _protection_.

Yet slavers and criminals still seem to get past them regardless. The elves here are forgotten about by everyone – the nobles don't seem to think elves have any rights and thus, there's no such thing as a crime against an elf.

Hawke sighs to himself as he spins a dagger in his hand. The massive _vhenadahl _as Merrill called it stretches far into the sky. Its branches become one with some of the higher apartments and the thickness of the leaves cloak the ground in shadowed darkness. Trinkets and offerings are left at the thick base of the tree trunk and to Hawke, it seems like the tree is glowing with a slight purple tinge. He has no idea whether that's meant to happen or not, but he's certain that the elves won't tell him regardless.

As far as he's concerned, it could all very well be because the Veil is thin here. Bethany's mentioned something along those lines a few times to him. Anders has picked up on a few things and even Merrill seemed a bit nervous when she first stepped into the city – for reasons other than the obvious.

Hawke frowns to himself and stops spinning his dagger. He can feel the subtle prickle of magic racing down the tiny hairs on his spine. A benefit of growing up around magic, he supposes. But it still unnerves him that even as a non-mage, he can feel the slight change in the air where it seems like the Fade is creeping in.

Varric steps up to him from the shadows, blissfully ignorant to the changes in the air. "So I take it you didn't manage to bring her away from the blood magic?" he asks.

Hawke wonders when he became so obvious that people were able to read his mind. Or perhaps it's just a quality that Varric happens to possess. The dwarf is always in the know about everything – maybe reading minds just happens to be one of his traits.

"No such luck," Hawke says.

"Shame," Varric sighs. He shrugs loudly and points up the mountain of stairs out of the alienage. "Well, Junior wandered off home with Sunshine a little while ago; they didn't want to be in here after the gates got shut. Your warhorse went back with them – probably to try and stop Junior moaning to everyone who passed them that his brother was trying to steal his woman."

Hawke laughs and rolls his eyes in one movement. "There's too many things wrong with that statement. Besides, Carver should know that I prefer a woman with hips."

"I'll drink to that," Varric says. "Hanged Man?"

"May as well."

The _vhenadahl _basks them in a soft purple glow as they make their way around it and towards the stairs. What the guards don't know, and what most of the criminal underworld of Kirkwall seem to, is that the house closest to the stairs happens to have had a back passage carved into it, with a winding set of stairs that lead up to the rear of Lowtown. Hawke considers that maybe one day he should mention such a thing to Aveline, but as it so happens, he likes having the quick shortcuts to get around everywhere.

"I mentioned to Merrill that we'll stop by tomorrow," he says as they enter the seemingly innocent house. A pair of guards stands by the doors to the stairs, dressed in simple enough leather armour for people to overlook them. There are no obvious weapons on them, but Hawke knows they both have a dagger in their sleeves and swords strapped to the tables beneath.

There's usually a toll for using such a side passage, but one simple nod from Varric gets them passed without any charge. The door hides a set of stone stairs that have been carved into the rocks of Kirkwall itself and little torches burn with red flames all the way up the stairs.

"Any reason why?" Varric asks once they're out of earshot. The brilliant fact about the out-of-site route is that there's never anyone waiting around to attack. People that come through here know better than to try and attack one another. The survivor would only be set upon by the guards afterwards anyway. "Please tell me you're not doing it to annoy Junior. There's only so much of his whining about being so overlooked I can take. No offence of course."

Hawke chuckles. "I agree completely with you, don't worry.I said we'd set up a few traps for her. The alienage isn't the nicest of places, and while I get the feeling she may be able to zap anyone who barged into her house, she's also…"

"An archdemon short of a Blight?" Varric finishes for him.

"Exactly."

"So have you thought anymore about the expedition?" Varric asks him. "Any ideas who we're going to take? I hope you're not going to say Daisy, because I don't think she'll be able to cope for weeks underground without poking something and causing a cave-in."

Hawke shrugs and scratches at his beard. "I'm not sure, to be honest. We're not taking Merrill or Bethany, given what Anders told us. Even if it's a lie to keep us out of there, I don't want to risk it being true. Aveline… I don't think she wants to willingly go anywhere with darkspawn again – especially after what happened with her husband."

He can still remember Aveline's face when she realised she would have to kill him to stop him dying slowly. Hawke had offered, but Aveline had insisted it was her place to do it. She hadn't really spoken much after that, but she'd at least spoken to him more than Carver or Bethany did. Shepard was really the only one who stood by him the entire time, constantly there with the occasional growls or barks to let Hawke know he wasn't alone.

"So that leaves us two, your little brother, a warhorse of a dog and an abomination." Varric laughs in what Hawke is certain isn't entirely forced disappointment. "Gotta say Hawke, I'm hoping we find someone better – and _soon_."

Hawke sighs and runs his hand across his face. "We're not taking Carver," he says. Even as the words drift out of his mouth, the phantom voice of his brother rings in his ears. He can picture the reaction even now; the disappointment, the whining, the petulant _why do you get to decide everything, it's your fault we're here anyway and moan, moan, drivel blah, blah, blah._

"If Bethany stays, I want someone with her I can trust. Aveline's here, but she's not going to be around all the time. As extensive as my contacts may not be, there's only a few people here and there that I can trust to look out for her. And even had we known Merrill for longer, I still wouldn't feel comfortable leaving her with Bethany. In fact, I'm fairly certain I'd worry more."

Varric sighs and shakes his head. They reach the top of the stairs, open the door and nod at the guards waiting on the other side. They see Varric, bow their heads and withdraw into the shadows. Varric says nothing as he opens the door of the shack and the stale air of Lowtown washes over them once more.

Hawke takes a few steps and sees the construction of archways already beginning above. He remembers Saemus saying something about them being viaducts – some sort of Tevinter invention to transport flowing water over the city. Hawke sees it as a good idea, but also an easy method of poisoning hundreds. He looks away, down the stairs to the docks and sees more thugs on their way to intimidate as many as they can. Skulking ahead is the familiar sight of an ex-Templar, scrounging for any coin he can get to buy his precious dust.

"If things keep getting so crazy though Hawke, we might not have a choice," Varric says. He nods upwards, where even in the middle of the night, Hawke can still see the shattered remains of the Chantry. Cries of dwarven engineers and elven slaves can be heard over the distance; the demands for faster work, the shouts after someone does something wrong.

"I know," Hawke sighs. "I wish you weren't, but you're right. As it stands though, we'll likely needs Anders in the Deep Roads anyhow. Where else are darkspawn going to retreat to after a Blight? Anders may be liable to turn into a freakish nightlight and blow everything to pieces if he so much as stubs his toe, but he can still sense darkspawn. That is, unless your brother is in the business of hiring Grey Warden mercenaries or ghouls."

"Don't even put that thought out there, Hawke." Varric shudders loudly in the otherwise quiet night. "If Bartrand got the idea into his head the hiring ghouls was cheap labour, he'd do it – even if the price was risking catching the Blight."

"Good to know our finance man has his priorities straight."

"Say what you like Hawke, but Bartrand actually deserves credit for the way he handles the money. Sure, there may not be an awful lot of it left, but House Tethras was near ruin before this trip was even a planned expedition. You're not the only one hoping on a long shot here." He coughs into an open fist and manages to smirk a little. "Of course, you never heard that."

Hawke smiles back at him. "I never heard anything." Though he does feel a little better with such knowledge. At least it's not all the whims of a rich noble seeking a little bit more money. It's a desperate dwarven house seeking to reclaim their wealth and position. Naturally, that makes the entire plan all that more dangerous, but the prize is all the sweeter for it.

"Oh look," he says as he glances up, sees the Hanged Man and a crowd of mercs stalk through the door. "Entertainment. Reckon Nora's pissed someone off so bad that they've ordered a hit on her?"

Varric laughs. "Now that, I would pay to see. I'd be sad that she wasn't around to scowl at me and get my order wrong, but I'd still love to see her chew out a few mercenaries."

Yet despite his words, Bianca is already loaded. Hawke has a dagger hidden just beneath his palm, ready to strike. He glances at Varric and spreads his fingers just slightly. _Five_. That's how many he counted going in.

Varric nods and flicks his thumb quickly. One cloaked and hidden behind them all. It's times like this that Hawke can appreciate how like-minded he and Varric are. He has no idea how it happened, but one day they found themselves relaying entire strings of conversations with nothing more than glances and the occasional wave.

Hawke checks his hips, finds his two daggers strapped there and feels another in his boot. With only the two of them in close quarters, it might not exactly be a fair fight, but he's still confident that they can dispatch at least half of the group before the other patrons join in the fun. Most criminals tend to forget the Hanged Man is usually full of mercenaries seeking employ or hardened murderers that have spent their lives avoiding the brig.

When they enter the Hanged Man, the familiar smell of stank and booze washes over them. Hawke sees the group of mercs and the rest of the patrons in the Hanged Man. They're all pretending they can't see what's going on, but Varric's presence seems to rein them in and grants their allegiances. Hawke sees Corff move behind the bar; slowly going for an axe he has hidden behind the barrels there. If they try anything and it gets out of hand, they're not going to be getting out alive.

Well, Aveline will be busy tomorrow, at least.

Hawke sees the mercenaries crowd around the bar. Stood there, on her own is a single woman. Hawke takes a moment to drink her in; her blouse that seems ready to burst under the girth of her breasts, the glimpses of her navel it allows and the way it rides down far enough to only _just_ make her decent. She wears such extravagant amounts of jewellery and _Sweet Maker_ her legs are amazingly long and seem to be just poured into those boots.

Whoever she is, she sees him looking. She doesn't seem bothered by the crowd gathering around her at all. In fact, she ignores them all in favour of giving Hawke a look so smouldering with _sex_ that he's fairly certain he feels lust as a physical pain.

"This should be good," Varric says in a chuckle. Hawke glances at him to see he's already put Bianca away and has drawn up a chair. "This one's infamous for starting bar brawls. Pull up a seat. You'll understand why."

Hawke can't find it in him to deny himself the opportunity to watch the woman. As he leans against a wall and folds his arms, he sees her gaze draw over him, even as one of the mercenaries taps her on the shoulder.

Their eyes meet and she throws him a small smirk Hawke's certain is laden with _meaning_.

The mercenary says something and Hawke watches the woman sigh. She drains her drink in one, glares back at the man, says something and motions for another drink.

The man goes to attack, but she's already moved out of the way. She spins around him in a blur, brings her glass down across the back of his head and smiles as he drops. Two more come at her from either side and she ducks between them both. Her elbows fly up in either direction and both their noses crack as one. She grabs one by the shoulders and drives her knees into him hard enough to make certain he'll never have kids again.

The other she deals with by simply punching him in the face once more. He drops as she spins and kicks another in the face. He goes flying with enough force that he actually crashes into and _through_ a table. Cheers erupt in the background as the patrons enjoy the fight.

One of the men draws a blade on the woman. She looks down at it and raises a fine eyebrow – even from a distance, Hawke can see the joke she's already making. The man goes bright red and lunges for her. She twists out of the way, brings up two of her daggers and simply cuts his hand free from his arm. He screams and she kicks him in the stomach and onto the floor. As he lays bleeding, another leaps for her. She doesn't even move this time. She simply holds out her foot and lets him run right over it, trip and crash into the wall with his own momentum.

"Amateurs," she sighs, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Hawke's cheering with everyone else, he realises. He's counted five so far – the cloaked one is around here somewhere. The woman seems not to know about him and has returned to her drink. Hawke watches her as the bar seems to realise the fight is over and returns to their drinks.

But Hawke waits. He knows something is wrong the moment the shadows behind her shift.

His dagger is in the man's throat the moment he appears. The woman seemed to know he was there all along, though she seems genuinely surprised to see someone has gotten the kill first. She lowers her own knives and throws an appreciative smirk Hawke's way.

The first one she downed is attempting to crawl away into the night. He manages to get to his feet and clutching his bleeding head, turns to the woman. "You owe us Isabela! I'll make sure you pay! I swear it on –"

Hawke breaks his chair across the man's back. He drops with a whimper and doesn't seem likely to get back up anytime soon.

"Well," says the woman as she saunters over. Her hips sway from side to side and the orange glow of the lanterns seems to bounce straight off her dusky skin. The gaze she settles Hawke with is pure lust and he's certain that if she keeps this up, he's simply going to flip her onto one of the nearby tables and make her scream his name in front of everyone.

"And here I thought everyone in here was as useless as him," she says, nodding at the man Hawke has just downed. "Would you believe Lucky was recommended to me? People said he knew everything that was going on here." She kicks him over onto his back and snorts at him. "I bet he doesn't even know what's going on in his pants."

"In that case, I'm certainly not like him," Hawke says. He feels the grin spread across his face and can't stop it. "I assure you, I know everything that goes on in my pants."

She laughs, her eyes dancing with intrigue and danger both. Hawke finds it a combination he just wants to be near all the more. "That's what they all say, sweet thing. Though I can't deny you seem to be helpful, at the very least. I'm Isabela." She bows a little, tipping at an imaginary hat. "Previously Captain Isabela, but sadly without a ship, that title rings a bit hollow."

"Hawke. I don't have a previous title, I'm afraid. Though I'm certain I can find a mast that I'd want you to take charge of."

"Oh? Well, you'll have to show me this mast one day. I hope you have good knowledge of rigging. I find it's so dreadfully tiresome to man a mast if there's no current underneath that's rocking the world and increasing the tides."

_Maker above,_ Hawke wants nothing more than to claim her right now. Her eyes seem to shine gold in the light, her hair barely contained by the bandanna on her head. He could wax poetic about her for as long as he stands talking to her.

"Tell you what, Sweet Thing," she says, patting his cheek. "I might have something you can help me with. Unfortunately, not sailing related. Not yet, anyway."

He sighs dramatically. "And here I thought you'd be the first person I'd find who _didn't_ need me to stab something."

"What can I say?" she asks, laughing. "It must be something in the water. So here's the deal; I have someone I need dealing with. Hayder's been following me for days now and I think he knows that I'm not going to be able to pay his boss back. So I've arranged a duel. When I win, he'll be dead and I won't have to worry about him again. So I need someone to watch my back, since I don't trust him to play fair."

Hawke raises an eyebrow. It's not exactly the job he was expecting, though he's hardly surprised by it either. Only one thing manages to pique his attention more than the rest, though, "A duel?"

Isabela actually looks offended. "What's so strange about that?"

Hawke shrugs. "Nothing. I simply wasn't expecting that. So if I help you, how are you going to manage to pay me back?"

"Oh?" Isabela practically oozes her way towards him. "I'm sure I can always think of something. If you're going to be a bore though, I happen to know Hayder usually carries a pouch full of coin with him. Help me out on this and whatever he and his men are carrying is yours."

"One more condition," Hawke says. His body screams betrayal at him for choosing the smart option over the short term fun. "I want you to teach me your duelling tricks – if you're any good, that is."

The sparks seem to ignite with a potent fire. "Oh, you can count on that, Sweet Thing. The duel is arranged for tomorrow night in Hightown, near the Blooming Rose. Be there at sundown, Sweet Thing and I'll be sure to teach you things you've never thought of before."

He watches her leave and finds his attention caught on the sway of her hips. If she's doing it on purpose, he's certainly not going to complain.

It seems like Varric appears from nowhere to stand by Hawke's side and clear his throat. "You may want to pull your tongue up off the floor now, Hawke. And here I thought Junior was bad with Daisy."

"I'm not _that_ bad," Hawke moans, "am I?"

Varric simply laughs and pats him on the arm. "You know what my friend? I think you don't need a drink anymore. I think you need to go home to a nice, cold bath. I'll still be here tomorrow and you'd better take me with you for this duel – I won't miss you making an ass out of yourself in front of a pretty lady for anything."

**-x-X-x-**

Bethany's quite certain that Anders seems to be glowing more and more with every passing day she spends with him. He never says anything to her because she never asks.

After all, she's not stupid enough to ask an abomination when he's likely to go postal and burn his own clinic down.

Still, she can't help but wonder if she's exposing herself unnecessarily by having him teach her healing. Sure, she needs the teaching and she's learnt so much training with him, but is it really worth the risk of staying near a man who threatens to tear open the Veil each time he sees a mage with a paper cut?

She stops healing when she's certain the infection's gone. Her hair is soaked through and sticking to her face. The little boy seems to have more colour in his system now, his parents strangely revering her, rather than cursing her and throwing rotten fruit at her head.

Anders appears behind her, closes his eyes and presses his hands over the boy. His hands shine blue as he glides them over the boy, evaluating her work.

"Here," he says, stopping over the boy's lungs. "Have a look."

She places her hands beneath his, closes her eyes and wills the Fade into the complex patterns of healing. Her eyes are shut, but she sees the world in a strange hue of purple. The people flow around her, like they're not entirely there at all. She sees disease over the walls, spreading like a sea of black.

She's never been entirely comfortable with the way the world looks when she's healing. She sees where the boy should be and frowns. A healthy body gives off an aura that she should be able to see. The boy seems to be doing exactly that, though a tiny little fleck appears in her vision. She clamps down upon it and sees the spot of chokedamp still lodged in the boy's lungs, trying to grow even now.

Had she not been looking for it, Bethany knows it would have been so easy to miss. But it's her mistake and it nearly cost the boy his life, no matter how far in the future he may have died because of it. She commands the Fade to attack the chokedamp and _only _the chokedamp. As it does so, she searches the rest of the boy and wills her magic into his body, forcing it to grow faster, to repair itself at unnatural rates.

From behind her, Anders grunts his approval. She lets go of the Fade and is blinded by darkness as it retreats.

As always, the whispers are there, taunting her, promising her more power. She shuts them off with practised ease, opens her eyes and manages to smile at the boy.

"Your son is fine. He'll recover perfectly."

Though unless the family move from the Foundry district, Bethany knows they'll be back before the season is out. She sighs and pushes herself onto unsteady feet. Her head throbs with the familiar pain from exhausting her magic. The toll on her as exactly the same as it would be had she ran for a long distance. Her lungs are tight, her head throbs and she feels pain build up in the majority of her muscles.

She finds a cot, sits down and takes a deep breath. She needs to learn to heal properly; else she'll never be able to be relied on by anyone! Her brothers charge into battle so quickly to protect her, they forget they're likely to be injured in doing so. She's not Father – she can't repair a wound easily. Healing takes time for her. Each and every mage has their own specialty, she remembers Father saying. Some can burn people to ashes with the tiniest of thoughts; others never manage to create more than a spark.

She sighs and flicks open one of the many tomes her brother has _arranged_ to be delivered into her personal collection. She knows they're from the Circle and has no idea how he's managing it, though she's not complaining. Anders seems to have caught wind and bothers her constantly for messages on the mages inside. He plots and plans ways to use such an ability to sneak each and every mage out of the Circle and into freedom.

He's so blinded by it that he doesn't realise how impossible it is. She supposes that's a common theme in Kirkwall – her brothers are blinded by their devotion to protect her that they're unable to see what they're doing to themselves. Aveline is determined to work past the grief of losing Wesley and make herself into someone he could be proud of. Merrill is just a little _too_ obsessed with restoring elven glory and every person who's ever been healed in the sewers knows of Anders' thoughts of the Circle and the Templars.

"I've been thinking," Anders says as he drops down beside her, almost as if he knew she were thinking about him. "Hawke manages to procure you these books, correct? Would it be possible for him to arrange for mages to leave letters in a book, then for his contact to sneak the book and all the letters out? It would be invaluable in learning what truly goes on in the Circle – how far the Templars are abusing our kind."

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. That hadn't gone down too well last time, after all. "You'd have to ask him about that, Anders. I'm just the one who wakes up to find a new book by my side every so often. I have no idea how he even manages to select them, considering most conversations about magic schools with him tend to end up with him pretending to be possessed and gnawing on Carver's head."

Anders gives her a look that makes her burst out into a laugh. She supposes it is rather strange, when she says it aloud, but that's what he brothers are like. Even the task of making sure she doesn't turn into a demon in her sleep is mocked to try and make her feel just a little bit more human.

She sighs to herself and picks up her book once more. _The Basic Principles of Force Magic_, it's called, and she finds it surprisingly easy to follow. It's all about manipulating gravity to her will – something which she has found requires less use of the Fade and more common sense. She creates a magical link between two places and the lighter of the two gets pushed in the opposing direction. Mostly she's just practiced on pieces of medical equipment and the occasional piece of cutlery, though she did manage to knock a man sideways with the briefest of magical tethering's.

"Can you not ask him?" Anders pleads. "I'm needed here in my clinic. When your brother visits, it's not usually for a casual chat. Granted he may have sought my help in a few things, but I feel that he does not care for the injustice mages suffer as one should, considering his position."

Bethany fights the urge to groan. Here he goes again. Her brothers are bad people for fighting so hard to keep one mage free and not them all. She's a bad person for being a mage and not wanting everyone to know how much every mage in the Circle suffers. Sure, it may be selfish, but the thought of actually _knowing_ what's going on in there terrifies her more than her own imagination of the place. At least with her own thoughts, she can tell herself that it's all make believe. Once she hears the true horror stories, then the thoughts that keep her awake at night will have their foundations built upon tortured stories of the truth.

Cracks appear in Anders' face once more and Bethany feels a pang of fear lance through her spine. "Anders," she hisses, "you're glowing."

He catches himself and seems to forcibly hold in Justice or whatever he wishes to name his demon. "You're right," he says. "I do not wish to harm you, so let us converse on lighter topics. Your healing is progressing remarkably well. If you were any better, I would say that you were a natural at it. As it stands, it's obvious you try harder than anyone, which I daresay makes you quite a powerful healer – you can be stronger than most, once you know enough."

She shrugs and looks away. "I still should have caught that chokedamp earlier. That was a stupid mistake."

"We all make stupid mistakes," Anders says, smiling warmly at her. He pats her hand and meets her gaze. "When I was younger, in the Circle, those of us who were healers were more closely monitored. I may have purposefully healed a few Templars incorrectly, for my own reasons. When I escaped for the second time, however, I was needed to heal outside the Tower. I found that since I'd spent so long making the Templar's injuries more miserable, I'd forgotten how to heal properly. I learnt that day that when you're healing, it doesn't matter who the patient is, merely that they're in need of healing and you're the only one who can provide it. That stupid mistake of mine caused a pregnant woman to die – at least yours was correctly well in time."

Bethany nods and draws her hand away from his. It burns like fire and ice all at once – and not in a good way. "I should get back to the patients," she says, moving away from him. Is it possible that Anders actually has some attraction towards her? Maker, she hopes not. She finds it strange that she's actually in the position of hoping someone _doesn't_ want her, but in this case, it seems perfectly natural. She's not certain whether he's actually attracted to her, though if he is, she's sure it's not for any reason greater than her symbolism as an apostate mage who isn't slitting her wrists or speaking in tongues.

She moves herself away from him and back to the patients. A woman walks into the clinic, light brown hair loose around her face, dressed in traveller's clothes richer than most Bethany expects to see even in Lowtown, let alone the sewers. The woman has two halves of a snapped bow in her hands, an empty quiver of arrows and a frightening amount of blood pooling from her midsection.

Bethany's caught her before she was even aware the woman was going to fall. "You're alright now," Bethany says, panicking about all the _blood_ everywhere. How can one woman bleed so much? Bethany takes a breath and calms herself. She'll be no use to the woman if she panics.

"I'm a healer," Bethany tells her as she drags her over to a free cot. Anders has caught sight of them and rushes over, helping Bethany to support the woman.

Their patient seems to have the remarkable urge to get back up and do something. Anders holds her down and soothes her, his hands pressed over her stomach and his magic already pouring into her. As he works, Bethany closes her eyes and sees the damage. A blade cut straight across the midsection – it seems as if the woman has been holding in her intestines with nothing more than her hands. Infection seems to be settling in already. Bethany clears it away as Anders repairs all the damage, forcing tissue to regrow and wounds to scab over.

"By the Maker," Bethany says when the woman looks at her. "How did you manage to get all the way here?"

The woman smiles and cracks her lips in the process. "You can do remarkable things when you've got a group of men waiting to cut you down or do worse. I was in Lowtown when this happened. I was looking for my – _someone_. I was looking for someone."

Anders sags over her and takes a deep breath. "You were very lucky," he says. "I've not seen many able to recover from such a wound. I would like it if you stayed here for the night. You'll still be weak in the morning, but the wound shouldn't open itself in the meantime."

The patient nods. "Thank you, serah. I am afraid, however, that I have no coin to repay you – I spent everything I have arriving here."

Anders chuckles, just a little. Bethany's grown used to the way he brushes off people's fears of payment, acting the gallant hero as he does so. Naturally, he follows it up with speeches of how mages should not be oppressed and that their talents shouldn't be locked away.

The patient seems about as swayed by the argument as Bethany does. Their eyes meet and Bethany laughs at the silent question of _how do you put up with this?_

She shrugs and cleans the healed wound as Anders moves off to treat yet more patients.

"Charade," the woman says. "I'm Charade."

"Bethany." She smiles at her and continues the quick work. "What are you doing here then, Charade? There aren't many women travelling on their own these days – much less so those with a broken bow."

"I had heard rumours of a family member," Charade says. "He did some things and brought our name back into the world – or so I've heard. The last of my family is here, in Kirkwall. My mother passed not three weeks ago. She told me my father lives here and that I should seek him out." She laughs, bitterly. "Imagine my surprise when he turns me away, claiming that I'm nothing more than a begging scoundrel."

Bethany sighs, but smiles just a little at the same time. "Sounds like my uncle. My family escaped the Blight in Ferelden. Our mother was killed as we tried to escape – she wanted to come here, to meet our uncle. When we got here, without our mother, he didn't even show up at the Gallows to turn us away in person. He simply passed on a message to the guard who went looking for him. Apparently we're not 'his concern', since our mother is no longer around."

Charade blows out a laugh. "Family, huh? And here I had heard that the Amells were meant to be nobles."

Bethany drops the bowl of water she's holding. It splashes all over the floor and pools around her feet. She doesn't notice it as she stares at the woman – _her family_ – with wide eyes. "You're an Amell?"

"Yes," Charade says slowly, "supposedly. My mother married into their family."

Bethany's hands are sweating, she realises. "Your father. Is his name Gamlen, by chance?"

Charade seems to try and run from the cot at once. "How do you know that?" Distrust sparks in her eyes quicker than the flames Bethany can channel into the air at will.

"My uncle – the one I just told you about. His name is Gamlen. My mother was an Amell. We're…" Bethany swallows past the lump in her throat. "We're cousins."

Charade barks a laugh. "Well, turns out the Maker may exist after all. The Hero of Ferelden and now the healer who saved my life, both cousins of mine?" She shakes her head. "Hard to believe."

Bethany smiles and sits next to her. Her living, breathing _cousin!_ She hadn't dared to think that she had family anywhere left in the world! "You look a little like my mother. The same sort of eyes. Bright blue eyes – it's an Amell trait, apparently. I just…" She squeals, Maker help her and grabs Charade's hands. "I wouldn't have ever thought this day would happen."

"Cousin…" Charade whispers, like it's a foreign word. "Bethany. Tell me; is it true what I've heard? That the Amell estate has been sold to slavers?"

Bethany feels like she's been punched in the gut. "It's _what?_ I didn't even know we _had_ an estate."

Charade sighs. "It's one of the reasons I came to Kirkwall. My mother mentioned it before she passed. There were other things I wanted to try and find, but I put them off to investigate this. My mother never mentioned our name, for fear of people knowing about our estate's descent into ruin. I wanted to cleanse our name of that, simply so that she could rest in peace."

"I had no idea," Bethany whispers. "I'm sorry. Do you know where this estate is? Or even how to get in?"

"Better," Charade says, smiling. "I got this wound when I followed a couple of slavers – hence why I was so intent on getting away from them. I managed to pick the pocket of one of them before he noticed me and found a nice little map of Darktown's sewer passages. Our family must have been wealthy – they have cellar passages going all the way from Hightown into Darktown. And better than that –" she reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a key, slightly rusted but otherwise still useable, "I swiped a key."

Bethany can't stop the laugh that spills from her lips. "I see that sort of thing runs in our family. My eldest brother has a strange habit of picking up things that aren't quite his too. I… would it be asking too much if I offered to help you clearing out our estate?"

A smile blossoms across Charade's face. "I was going to hire mercenaries for such a thing – your help would be invaluable. Who better to reclaim the estate than the family it was stolen from? Can you imagine? Tomorrow, we may be the owners of one of the grandest houses in Hightown?"

"Possibly not tomorrow, given that we need to be _someone_ to live there," Bethany sighs. "Though Carver – one of my brothers – happens to be good friends with the Viscount's son. In fact…" She grins devilishly. "I know Anders said you should rest tonight, but given that you're obviously an archer and that shouldn't open your wound anytime soon, we could claim the estate tonight. My eldest brother is busy tonight, but I can bring Carver along to help us."

Charade matches her grin. "Cousin, I like the way you think."

Carver will be completely up for storming the mansion, Bethany knows. Especially seeing as Garrett is busy tonight, trying to impress Isabela. If they get the mansion back, it'll be something they can surprise _him_ with, for a change.


	6. The Reward

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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_Chapter Six; The Reward  
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**-x-X-x-**_  
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"_You don't get it, do you? Mages used to shape the world how they saw fit. They could move buildings with their minds; pull the air out of someone's lungs. The Templars are to blame for our fear of using power now. Demons might prey upon us, but we can dismiss them without a thought. All we need is one mage to regain the power we used to have, and then we can show the Templars what we're really capable of!"_

Anders scares Hawke more and more with each passing day. Or Vengeance does. Hawke's not entirely certain what one he happens to be talking to sometimes – thought the glowing blue does help. He remembers the argument clearly – it was so far one of the only things that Merrill and he managed to talk like civilised people about. Hawke remembers the look Aveline had given him. It had been shared by Carver. Distrust. Fear. Nervousness.

Hawke had dismissed it as propaganda from a man who lives only to free mages. He wonders if maybe there's a bit more truth to it than he thought, given Flemeth and what she can do.

Regardless, he puts the thought out of his mind. He can't think about mages and their ancient tricks when there are more important things happening.

The chill winds of Hightown caress him like a forgotten lover. Hawke takes a moment to feel them embrace him and sighs. It's so quiet here – the gangs of Hightown are working their magic and stopping the pompous nobles from ever coming outside when it turns dark. Aveline mentions something about how they should work on cleaning up the streets. For a moment he's tempted to just let them be and enjoy the silence it brings.

But when cloaked figures leap out towards them and demand their coin, Hawke considers that maybe ridding Kirkwall of them might be doing someone a favour. He could even charge for it!

It seems to take no time at all to get rid of the bandits. Aveline backhands one with her shield and sends the man flying backwards. She wants to keep him alive, but her blow sends him towards the stairs to Lowtown and tumbling all the way down. Hawke grimaces. There's no way he's getting up from that again.

Merrill roars as the stone beneath her comes alive. It punches into a man and sends him flying into a nearby stall. He doesn't stop there and the stall flies along with him, crashing into a nearby pillar of stone with a tremendous crash. While Varric settles for merely filling every enemy he can see full of bolts, Hawke watches as Shepard leaps at a bandit and removes his throat in less time than it takes to breathe.

All in all, he considers that the bandits really didn't know who they were dealing with. He's more than aware they're merely part-time enthusiasts; able to pick off a few people here and there, but against a trained army, he knows they wouldn't last long. He wonders if perhaps they should do something about that before they find themselves outgunned.

Though he also wonders if he'll actually stay in Kirkwall long enough for that to happen.

He rolls out of the way of a blade and stabs his daggers into the person's leg. Blood gushes out in a fountain as he rips his daggers free, spins and kicks the man in his wounded leg. He drops and Hawke kicks him in the skull hard enough to break something. The man moans for what seems like an eternity before Aveline storms over to him, picks him up with only one arm and demands the location of their base.

Predictably, the man says nothing.

Varric's the one to break the silence with a chuckle. "My friend, do you not see the destruction around you?" He spreads his arms and for the first time, Hawke becomes aware of the stones covered in blood. Pieces of people line the small market courtyard and he's fairly certain that if he took a drink for every person they killed here tonight, he'd end up in a coma.

"Now, if we disposed of them so easily, what do you think will happen to you?" Varric's all smiles, but Hawke can tell that the dwarf wants to just get the information and be done with it. Varric doesn't like the gangs any more than the next person, though his approach is considerably gentler than Aveline's.

"Tell me where your base is!" she demands, shaking the man as he bleeds out. She holds up her free hand and presses a dagger into the man's face. "I don't have time to play games. Tell me where it is and you might live long enough to spend to enjoy the brig."

The man coughs out an address that Hawke's unfamiliar with. Aveline seems to know something about it. She nods and drops the man. He's dead from blood loss before he even hits the floor.

"Are we going there?" Merrill asks. "I don't think they'd be very happy to see us. It's polite to let people know you're going to their house first, isn't it? But do you suppose they'd let us in, even if they knew we were coming?"

"Merrill," Aveline sighs. "We're not going there tonight. We have other business. Hawke wants to help out a whore," she says, casting a scathing look his way.

"What?" he says innocently. "She said she was in trouble and could pay for our help. I thought that as a member of the guard, you would like to see these people who stalk lovely young women and force them to fight for their lives."

Aveline scoffs. "More like you wanted a chance to get in her pants. Don't think I don't know about Isabela, Hawke. I'm fully aware of what she gets up to – she's been in the brig almost every day this week."

"There's nothing bad about that," Hawke says.

"She's only been in Kirkwall a week."

Hawke laughs and says nothing. Shepard comes up to him, pawing at the ground and searching for treats. With a sigh, Hawke pulls a piece of dried meat from his pouch and tosses it to the mabari. It's gone in less than a second and he's accosted for more.

"One treat per skirmish," he says, tapping him on the nose. "Otherwise you'll get fat. And then what would I do, when I need your help and you're too fat to rip someone's throat out?"

Shepard whines again, stubby tail nearly wagging itself off. Reluctantly, Hawke groans and tosses him another piece. "I swear you'll eat all the coin I'm meant to be funding this expedition with."

"You're going to the Deep Roads, aren't you?" Merrill asks as they start walking again. Hawke sees the way Varric cloaks himself a little more into the shadows as they near the Merchant's Guild. Perhaps they're still after him for missing meetings – Hawke supposes he and Aveline will have a task on their hands if Varric disappeared. Who would be behind it? Angry gangs or equally angry dwarven merchants? He honestly doesn't know which of the two he'd rather fight.

"That's where all the darkspawn live. Why would you want to go there?" Merrill continues. "Carver told me all about it, but I don't think he realises much about darkspawn. I've fought them before. Back in Fereldan, when we were travelling through the south. We found… something in a cave. It stole away two of our clan – tainted them until they were nothing but ghouls. One died. The other disappeared."

She sighs sadly and looks away. Varric takes her hand, smiles and tells her it's all going to be okay, that they're not going to turn into ghouls, die or disappear. She seems to brighten at that, though Hawke sees that Aveline is thinking much the same, if her expression is anything to go by.

"Well, well, well."

Hawke looks up and finds Isabela sat atop one of the smaller houses. She smiles in amusement at them all, a nearby torch bathing her in bright orange light. Her eyes seem to sparkle like a predator's as she leans forwards and places her chin in her hands.

"Seems like you've been busy," she says and nods towards the bodies they've left in the distance. "Can't say I blame you. But can you imagine how sore you'd be if it was your job to bury all of these idiots? Wait, do they bury or burn the dead here?" She frowns for a moment before waving a hand. "Bah. Not like it matters. I don't plan to find out."

Aveline's frown is quite impressive. "Hello, Whore."

Isabela's all smiles as she jumps down from the roof and lands with a grunt. "Hello to you too, my favourite guardswoman." She dusts herself down as she stands back up and winks at her. "I wouldn't have thought I'd be seeing your blade pointed with me. Usually it's always against me. Tell me; do you find yourself complete when you point your blade at people? Does it make you feel powerful? Are you the sort of woman that wishes to penetrate others with her tools?"

Aveline turns a shade of red so dark Hawke thinks it's becoming purple. "So help me whore, I will end you right now," she growls as she stomps towards her.

"Careful," Isabela says, smiling still. "Can't kill an unarmed woman. What would your boss think?"

Aveline growls and sends a very clear threat of death Hawke's way. "This is your idea, Hawke. I'll put up with it for now, but so help me, if you can't keep this whore in line I'll lock her up in chains for the rest of her life."

"Kinky," Isabela snorts.

Aveline snarls at her, but Merrill is the first to say anything. "I don't get it," she says, rather cluelessly. "Have I missed something? Was it dirty? Do people like being put in chains?"

Isabela's laugh seems like she secretly wants to pat Merrill on the head and protect her from the world. "You're such a sweet, innocent kitten. There are many things in this world that people like, my dear. Maybe you'll even let me show you them, sometime?"

Varric makes a sound that's either clearing his throat or choking on his own saliva. Either way, Hawke finds it amusing. He looks down at Varric at the same time Isabela does and catches her eye. She sends him a look so smouldering he nearly physically shudders in delight. Shepard nudges his leg, growling at him as if he's admonishing him for thinking with his loins.

"Perhaps we should get to the reason of why we're here?" Varric suggests.

"Right." Isabela dusts her hands together and sighs. A flicker of worry passes through her face before she covers it up again. "So here's the problem; this duel was meant to start hours ago. Hayder hasn't come by here. Nor have any of his men. I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this."

"And now you've just jinxed us," Varric sighs dramatically. "Andraste's tits woman! Have you no idea what usually happens in a story when someone says that?"

"What happens?" Merrill asks. "Our hahren never told stories that had someone ask that."

Varric chuckles. "Usually –"

"There she is!" A woman screams from behind them.

"-That happens," Varric finishes sourly. Hawke spins and finds a woman with a stern face and a large broadsword leading a group of bandits all towards them. From nearby, Hawke hears Isabela grunt something in a different language, just as he sees the bows being aimed at them all.

Hawke curses the air blue. He just about manages to dive to the floor before the arrows whistle overhead. He hears everyone around him do much the same. Shepard growls at them all yet won't advance. It's only when the earth between them cracks and splinters that Hawke remembers they have a mage on their side.

A wall of pure earth and stone rips from the ground and stands between them. Hawke laughs as Merrill whispers things in her native tongue, no doubt tired and drained. He presses his back against the stone wall as Aveline does the same next to him. One by one the bandits move around the wall and are cut down by them. A few more run around the sides and are cut down quite quickly by Merrill or Varric.

Finally Merrill drops the wall with a shout. It thunders back into the ground and leaves a tremendous gash in the earth. Isabela's already racing across it and meets the woman with the broadsword with just her daggers. The woman swings for her, but Isabela is far faster. Each time she goes for her, Isabela has moved and cut her just a little bit more. It's obvious she's toying with her, showing her how much better she is and waiting for the chance to strike for information.

Finally it seems Isabela grows bored. She dodges a slash and brings her daggers across the woman's throat. Her eyes bulge and Isabela jumps backwards just as the woman's throat erupts blood all over the street.

"That was rather boring," Isabela sighs. "Next time, can we not fight a bit more? As interesting as magical walls are, there's nothing quite like the rush of a fight."

Hawke doesn't know what to say to her. Isabela winks at him before she squats before the fallen warrior and reaches into her pockets. She grunts in amusement and comes up holding a piece of bloody parchment.

"Huh," she grunts as she tosses it aside. "They're in the Chantry. Or the remains of it at least. I've been wondering about that actually; what happened there?"

Hawke and Varric share a guilty look. Aveline looks clueless but just as intrigued, while Merrill questions just what a Chantry actually does outside of singing songs and amassing huge crowds of old people and orphans.

"Who even knows?" Varric says quickly. "People tell people, who tell more people and a few nosy people. After a day, the story's so clouded with what people have heard, no one knows the truth anymore."

"Huh," Isabela grunts, though it's obvious she's fully aware Varric's bullshitting. "Shame. Oh well, I suppose we have no choice but to go to the Chantry." She laughs, seemingly to herself. "Never thought I'd hear myself say that."

Hawke smiles at her as he takes point. She saunters just a step ahead of him, her gaze never quite meeting his, but constantly sweeping over him as she scans the darkness. He feels like a piece of cloth on a stall, being appraised constantly before a purchase is made. She manages to fall into line with him so easily it's almost as if she's done so without thinking about it.

"So," she says slowly, "want to tell me about what happened there? I know a bullshitter when I see one; you're so full of it, I can practically see it growing out of your ears."

Hawke laughs quickly, nervously. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. Even if I did, there would be no way I'd spill."

Her smirk seems to take over her face. "Oh, Sweet Thing. I can make you spill again and again if I want."

She leaves him once more, scouting out the darkness again. Varric laughs from his side, tears shining in his eyes.

"Sweet Maker, Hawke. I wouldn't have thought this was a family trait. I don't think I've ever seen you blush!"

Hawke touches his cheeks with two fingers and realises he is, in fact, burning as red as a tomato. He tries to laugh it off and knows that Varric is fully aware of every thought going on in his head, somehow. Aveline is behind him, constantly muttering words under her breath about Isabela. Meanwhile Merrill wonders happily about the pirate, openly asking anyone if they think she has a hook for a hand or a parrot that lives on her shoulder.

When they finally reach the Chantry, Hawke's breath stops in his throat for a second. Sure, it's not completely demolished, but he can see the cracks where stone has slipped. A large portion of the roof is missing and there are no windows in the entire building. From what Aveline and Varric both say, it seems as if the inside is nearly completely ruined – supposedly when construction started, the stairs fell away as if by a mind of their own and crushed a few Templars who were patrolling.

Hawke's stomach does a strange little flip. He's uncertain whether he's more afraid of Anders going all glowy at them or more afraid for Carver and Bethany, should he keep them around any longer. He decides that if he's leaving them both at home, he's taking Anders into the Deep Roads, whether the mage likes it or not. He'd much rather deal with the threat of the abomination than living with the constant thought of him being anywhere near Bethany or Carver whilst he's buried under several miles of solid rock.

Isabela cracks open the doors to the Chantry an inch. She peers inside and pulls her head back quickly. "It's empty," she says, almost as if she doesn't believe it. "What happened to all the workers? I thought this was a day and night job? I don't like this."

"Neither do I," Aveline says and Hawke is terrified because these two shouldn't be agreeing on anything. "There's an ambush waiting for us in there – or at least there will be, if these people have any wits about them at all."

Isabela shrugs. "They might do. They won't be too hard to get rid of though. Hayder plays dirty – he should be in there alone, but he's going to have a few guards everywhere. You deal with them, I'll deal with Hayder." She smiles at them, eyes sparkling before she slips inside and seems to become one with the shadows. Hawke watches after her, concentrating just hard enough to follow her.

"Much as I don't like it, we should follow her," Aveline says. She stops just before the Chantry doors, turns and pokes an armoured finger into Hawke's chest. "And you're going to tell me what really happened here. Don't try and play innocent, Hawke. I know you're involved in this, somehow."

Hawke looks away and catches Varric's eye. '_Scary,_' the dwarf mutters, and Hawke can't help but agree. He slides in through the doors, Shepard following him dutifully, claws patting softly against the cold, hard stone.

Hawke looks up and sees that Andraste is still in pieces. She seems to look a little better than she did before and it seems that someone has been busy scrubbing all the blood off her. Merrill makes an offhanded comment about how cross she looks, which has Varric quipping about how no one would be happy if they'd been demolished.

"This isn't right," Isabela says quietly. Hawke watches the way she plays with a large earring, rubbing it as if it's a good luck charm. She places a hand on her hip, sighs and finally shrugs. "Hayder!" she screams into the building. "Show yourself before I have to skin your worthless hide!"

"…And there goes our element of surprise," Varric grunts.

Isabela just shrugs. "Even if Hayder won't play by the rules, I still will. A duel isn't something you cheat in – not any more than is necessary. Bringing extra people or hiding in rubble is just bad manners."

"And here I thought you had nothing but," Aveline quips.

Isabela goes to retort, but she's distracted by someone moving in the rubble. A man walks towards them, dressed in hard leathers and with a long dagger dancing between his fingers. Flanking him are an imposing woman with an equally imposing blade and a lithe man with a long staff.

Hawke wonders when mages will realise that carrying round a large wooden stick is practically screaming, _'Look at me, I'm a mage!'_ His father had always mentioned that while a staff streamlined a mage's focus, it could be done with any weapon embroiled with sufficient lyrium.

"Isabela," the man – Hayder, Hawke assumes – growls. "Should have known you'd find me here."

"Tell your men to burn the letters next time."

His face hardens. "No games, Isabela. Where's the relic. Castillon isn't happy you survived that shipwreck and didn't let him know."

"Haven't you heard?" Isabela says playfully. "I lost it. Funny thing about shipwrecks; they tend to bury everything you own at the bottom of the ocean. Balls to Castillon and his relic – do you know how many hats I lost in that damned storm?"

"You _lost_ it. The same way you _lost_ a ship full of valuable cargo?"

Isabela actually takes a step towards him. "Those weren't _cargo_, Hayder! They were people!"

"And they were worth a hundred sovereigns a head!"

"As interesting as this is," Hawke says tiredly. "Can we just get to the point where you two try to kill each other? Not that watching you argue about the merits of slaving isn't _riveting_, but I should probably remind you that you're having this discussion in front of one of the city's guard."

"Bah!" Castillon grunts. "This is what you bring as back up, Isabela? A dog-lord jester?"

"Dear, sweet, delusional Hayder," Isabela says, her arm reaching slowly for the inside of her leg. "Whoever said I needed back up?"

Her arm snaps out and suddenly the woman by Hayder's side drops, a dagger in her eye. Hayder snarls and promises revenge as the mage beside him tears open the Fade. Hawke watches as Merrill responds in kind; ice and lightning clashing over their heads and peppering the landscape with frozen clusters of electricity.

Hawke finds a man between him and Hayder. He only has a moment to wonder just where the hell he came from before he pulls a sword on him. Hawke swears, catches the man's wrists and tugs him out of the way. He sees Shepard picking off the remains of someone that came too close, Varric shooting archers before they can even line their shots and Aveline simply pummelling her way through people that seem to have come out of nowhere.

He grabs the man again, spins him and smiles as an arrow whistles into his exposed throat. He drops him, spins and throws his dagger and finds it buried in the chest of an archer that thought himself safe.

Hawke sees that everyone seems to be dealing with their foes easily enough. Isabela is in the throes of her duel; sweat glistening on her forehead as she fends off parries that come surprisingly fast from a man so large. The daggers in his hands seem no larger than fingers. Yet he moves with an undeniable speed that Hawke can barely keep up with.

Isabela, it seems, is accustomed to these sort of duels. Though her forehead glistens with sweat and her jaw is set in a fine line, she keeps up well enough. Or at least, Hawke _thinks_ she does. He can't quite follow the blades, but he hears the clangs of metal every second and assumes that she's at least parrying his blows.

Hayder fights dirty, Hawke notices quickly. He launches a snap kick from his waist and catches Isabela on the hip. She grunts, more surprised than annoyed – or so she sounds – and slices a thick line down his arm in payment. He growls and feints with his dagger. She goes to block it – instead he balls his fist around it and smacks her in the face.

She drops to the floor with a cry and a loud _thump_. Hayder grins as he stands above her, twirling his blades without a care in the world.

"Any last words, Isabela?" he snarls.

She smirks up at him. "Just a thought; I wonder if you scream like a little girl." Hawke sees a glint of silver on her boot. She kicks Hayder between the legs with all the force she can muster and makes Hawke wince, even from a distance. There's a wet squelch and suddenly the most inhumane, high-pitched squeal Hawke has ever heard comes from Hayder's throat.

Isabela rolls backwards and jumps to her feet. She draws a dagger slowly over Hayder's face, even as he drops his own and places both hands above his groin, bleeding freely as it is.

"This must be the only time you haven't disappointed a woman," she says, quietly, yet loud enough to carry in the ruins of the Chantry. Hayder doesn't even have the time to look up at her before she slides behind him and pulls her dagger across his throat. He spasms and she digs deep, bathing the floor around her in blood and pieces of neck.

Hayder drops to the floor, twitching slightly. After a moment he stills. Isabela takes the chance to give him one good, last kick to the side.

"Well," she says, wiping her brow and leaving behind a trail of blood, "that certainly was fun, wasn't it?"

**-x-X-x-**

Carver doesn't trust this woman.

He realises it with startling clarity. Though she claims to be their cousin – and though it pains it to him admit it, she _does_ look like their mother – he doesn't trust her. She's come out of nowhere, with nothing more than a bow and rags to her name. She claims to have the key to their old estate but really, who are the Amells, apart from a bunch of crinkled old has-beens, who now happen to be nothing more than a greedy old man who won't even look after his own nephews and niece?

Bethany seems to have been taken in completely, however. Carver knows she always wanted another girl around when she was growing up. There was only so far their brother and Carver could pretend that dolls were interesting. Carver remembers having to entertain Bethany so many times by hosting tea parties for her dolls. More often than not, he remembers her accidentally setting fire to a doll when he used them as puppets for his evil world domination plots.

"The estate is around here – or at least, that's what the slavers were saying," the woman – Charade – says with casual ease. Carver watches her with scorn – the way she wraps her eyes over every detail this part of the sewers hold, the way she presses her fingers against the cold, mould-covered stone and searches for a hidden switch. The way she moves in the shadows, as if she owns them, is eerily familiar. Carver can admit to seeing their own brother do such a thing countless times. Though it means she might be truthful in her claims to be part of the family, Carver still doesn't throw his support behind her.

"Finding it sooner rather than later would be preferable," Carver growls. If he strains his head enough, he can see the firelights of Anders' clinic burning against the omnipresent dark of the tunnels. Though Carver can't see far in the dark, Bethany wraps flame around her staff for some sort of light. His stomach still runs in circles every time he sees it, though Charade's only reaction was a small grunt and a passing mention that her mother had told her magic run in their veins.

"I should have worn thicker boots," grumbles Saemus. He flicks his leg and Carver watches as something thick and hairy flies out and hits the wall with a wet _splat._ He hopes it's a dead rat. Considering it to be anything else is just detrimental to his mental health.

"I did tell you we were venturing into the sewers," Carver points out. He wonders how his brother manages to do this all the time. Looking out for three people is more than a little bit of a hassle. Bethany gets distracted by the slightest mention of Templars and hides away like a frightened mouse. Saemus gets distracted by near enough _everything_, pondering the historical purposes of a loose stone that might have been part of something. Charade meanwhile is cloaked in mystery, her purpose and goals unknown. Carver doesn't like it, but as long as she helps him clear out this estate and one-up dear brother Hawke, he won't complain.

"I thought these would be thick enough," Saemus mumbles, scraping the remains of _something_ away with his sword. Inwardly, Carver hopes he knows how to use it. Sure, Saemus _says_ he's been trained in the sword and shield since he was young, but practising against wooden dummies happens to be a lot different than thinking, moving, brutish thugs.

"_Men_," Bethany sighs as she trudges past them, heedless of the dead rat that swims past her leg. She holds her staff to the wall, squinting until she finds something that elicits a gasp. "Here!" she says, pointing frantically. "There's a door. I think. It's got the Amell crest on it – I recognise it from the descriptions Mother told me when we were little!"

Charade bends down in front of it before Carver can see it. He considers just shoving her out of the way before remembering that she happens to have the key and losing it in the nearly knee-deep sewer water won't be beneficial to their plans.

"I've found a keyhole," Charade says slowly. She reaches into her top and pulls free a battered, ancient-looking key from between her breasts. Carver says nothing as she slides it into the lock, biting her lip as she twists it slowly, ever so _slowly_ until it finally _clicks_. The sound bounces around the old mining tunnels and for a moment their breath catches as one. When no one comes, they all sigh in relief and share a quick, small laugh.

"Keep the light near me," Carver says, striding forwards. "Charade, you keep an eye out for traps. Slavers are bastards, but they're usually smart bastards. Saemus… you keep rear guard and keep people off our backs."

"The sharp bit is what you stick them with," Charade says, a smirk in her voice.

Carver can imagine Saemus turning red enough to light up the tunnels. "Maker above woman, I know how to wield a sword!"

"I bet you do."

Carver shares his laugh with Bethany as Saemus stutters. He sees Bethany grab Charade's arm and whisper something in her ear that turns the little smirk into a disappointed frown. As quick as it happens, she wipes it into an impassive mask and gestures to Carver.

"By all means, lead us, oh fearless leader."

Carver considers the merits of simply knocking her out. Of course, given that she's still supposed to be resting, he wonders if it will somehow split open her wounds. Instead he just settles a glare on her, knowing that in the low light, she probably won't be able to see much. "Just keep quiet. I don't want any piss-eared slavers finding us before we find them."

He sees her salute him and the way Bethany stifles a giggle. He growls under his breath words that even he can't understand. His blade is in his hands, familiar and itching for blood. He sees nothing in the little corridor they walk into – though truth be told, he doesn't really expect to.

He sees a wooden door to his right. Strangely it's still perfect – even _varnished_. He tries the handle just once and finds it locked. He growls, grits his teeth and is about to just kick the damn thing down when Charade carefully pushes him out of the way. She motions towards a small trip wire on the lock and smirks up at him.

He glares down at her, not letting them see the way his spine shudders. He thinks of the explosion that could have gone off and knows that he wouldn't be waking up from it. Neither would Bethany, and he's more than certain their brother would travel to the Maker's side just to chew him out for failing to protect her.

"Done," Charade whispers, tucking a set of lockpicks back into her blouse. Carver wonders just how much she happens to store down her top before deciding he just doesn't want to know. He presses his hand gently against the door, still wary of an explosion about to happen, counts down from three and flings the door open.

He peels his eyes open slowly once he's sure he hasn't been blown into smithereens. The first thing he notices is the _stench_. Even the sewers smell more fragrant than this room! He places the back of his hand over his mouth as he moves in, balancing his blade in his spare hand. He sees nothing but a bare room, complete with cages barely large enough to contain a mabari. In each are the remains of humans or elves, some decaying, some just bones and others still recognisable. He sees the cuts across their arms, necks and legs and in a flash is back to his childhood, in the middle of a field in Fereldan somewhere, being lectured by their father.

'_Blood mages do this,' he says, pointing towards the body. Carver wants to throw up as he looks at it. The skin seems to have been peeled away. The eyeballs have been removed. There's cuts that run along the body, marking out a peculiar pattern he only notices because Father points it out._

_Bethany gasps and presses her face into Carver's back. He stands strong, even as Garrett turns a little green. They share a look – Garrett is barely even a teen, Carver remembers – and it's like a silent promise is made, never to let Bethany reduce herself to this._

"Maker above," Bethany breathes, bringing Carver back to the present. He touches the bars on one cage and is more than a little relieved when nothing inside moves.

"This is what my father sold the family estate to?" Charade hisses. "We should burn this entire place down – slavers included."

Carver wants to agree. For the first time, he finds himself liking this supposed cousin, just a bit.

Saemus is quick to point out the flaw in their plan, however. "The Amell estate is a large place," he says, pointedly ignoring the corpses and staring at the walls. "We would need a considerable amount of fuel – even for a magic-assisted fire. Then we also run the risk of the fire spreading into nearby houses. Granted, the Amell estate is rather large and doesn't link onto many other houses, but it still could. If it did, the results wouldn't be pleasant."

"Fine," Carver growls. He kicks the metal bars of a cage, listens to them hum and uses it to steel his anger into a fine point. "Then we find the bastards responsible for all of this and end them."

"Damn right," Bethany growls. Carver's quick to hide his shock as he looks at her. Her gaze burns with a fire that speaks of nothing but vengeance. Were she anyone else, he would be afraid that a demon had come along and possessed her. He wonders if maybe she's spent too much time around the abomination healer, but the quick glimpse of pain hidden behind her anger shows him that she's still there. He breathes a relieved sigh – considering the horrible thought of bringing Bethany back to their brother, possessed, wasn't exactly something he wanted to think about.

"_Oh, hello brother. Don't mind Bethany if she appears to grow horns. You see, she might have gotten a little bit possessed when we went out the other night to one-up you. But it's all alright, she's got her demon under control now. Even named her."_

He decides that were that to happen, he probably wouldn't last that long at all.

They move from the room and into the hallway again. Carver tells Charade to inspect the next door they come across. She declares it safe, though even so, Carver has her open it, whilst he stands just in front of Bethany. Saemus doesn't seem to know what he's planning, though his shield is almost constantly in his hand, waiting to hide him from something horrible.

They find themselves in a wine cellar. Carver takes a step into it and barks out a quiet laugh. He considers taking one and drinking it straight from the bottle. As quickly as he thinks about it, he decides it's probably a bad idea. He hasn't eaten in a long time and he knows it would go straight to his head. Whilst that might normally be agreeable, he doesn't want to charge into a slaver's den with his sister whilst completely blind drunk.

"These are expensive bottles," Bethany whispers, her anger seemingly cooling.

"Imported from Tevinter," Saemus adds. "These people have good taste." He shrinks back under their combined glares and clears his throat awkwardly. "Aside from the slaving issue. Moving on! I think a number of these may be hiding a message of sorts – see the way only a few are removed, in what seems to be a pattern? It could be hiding a message – I've heard of something like that being done before."

"Can you read it?" Charade grunts.

"No."

"Then does it help us?"

"It might," Carver says quickly. "But not anytime soon." Somewhere behind the walls of wine, he hears a cough. "Quiet!" he hisses, holding up a hand. They fall in line instantly, weapons drawn. He sees Charade already readying an arrow in her bow. Silently, he's impressed she has the upper-arm strength to keep the bow drawn for so long. He feels the prickle of magic run down his neck as Bethany draws on the Fade and the sound of steel as Saemus draws his blade.

Carver presses himself against the wall and slowly makes his way across it. He pokes his head around the corner and finds a single guard stood there, a bottle of wine in his hands. Another guard lies on the floor nearby, red spilled out all around him. Carver thinks just for a moment that he's dead, killed by the other, but then he sees the bottle of wine clutched in his hands.

He smiles grimly to himself as he creeps around the corner, blade heavy in his hands. He makes it up to the guard and dispatches him with an eerie calm. The man makes nothing more than a short, wet gurgle before he slides off of Carver's blade and onto the floor.

"Was that truly necessary?" Saemus whispers. "He was only working for them."

"Working for _slavers_," Charade says, a bite to her tone. "To take their coin and look the other way is no different than locking people in cages yourself."

"I suppose you're right," Saemus says, tone heavy. "I cannot believe that Father would allow such an operation to exist in Hightown."

"I can't believe you're so blind to it all," Charade says. "Everyone knows coin buys silence. You might not want to think it, but your father has a price. Does he care about a few people he doesn't know? Does he really care if a few elves go missing from their slum?"

"Of course he does!"

"Really?" Charade slides her hand over her hip. "Tell me; when was the last time your father went down to Lowtown to see what the world is really like outside of his pretty palace."

Saemus' face is bright red. "I'll have you know he cares a lot! He helped to fund me when I was giving out food rations for the refugees!"

Carver resists the urge to groan at the memory of that alone. Just over a year ago, and he's not entirely certain Saemus has gotten any smarter in regards to anything requiring any sort of common sense.

"Saemus," Bethany says in a harsh whisper, "firstly, your father only donated funds because he needed the guards to stop more mercenaries from trying to take your head. Secondly, he's so far under the Knight-Commander's thumb that even the youngest of babes know about it."

"Thirdly," Carver says gruffly, slapping Saemus' shoulder with the back of his hand. "Keep quiet. We don't want them to know we're here, do we?"

He feels a slight tingle that runs down his spine. Nerves, he puts it down to. His arms tremble a little with the weight of his sword and he's certain that he needs to start eating a bit more, just to make sure he has the strength to keep lifting the damn thing.

"Can we hurry this along?" Charade whispers. "I'm getting awfully tired."

"So am I," Saemus says. "I apologise about before. I assume that my fatigue in using this weaponry is causing me to lose my temper."

Carver sighs. He feels a trickle of sweat run between his shoulder blades. He frowns, certain that it's nowhere near hot enough for something like that. Sure, Kirkwall is far warmer than Fereldan, but it's not exactly warm out either. He glances at the others and sees their brows slick with sweat, though their surroundings aren't hot.

"Something's wrong," Bethany whispers. Frost thickens around her hands and cools the air a little. Even with the cold in front of him, Carver still feels the sweat running down his chest and back. He can't help but agree with her.

"What's happening here?" he wonders. "Magic?"

"None I've ever seen," Bethany whispers. "I-!"

She cuts off with a shout of pain. Carver runs to her, but a sudden lance of pure _agony_ runs through his skull. His blood feels like it's turned to acid in his body. His arms move without him willing them, turning in ways that make his bones scream in protest. He gets up like a puppet on a string, collapses to the floor and is pulled up to his feet once more by an invisible hand.

He barely has the time to register the thought of _blood magic_ before something smacks him in the back of his head and turns everything black.

**-x-X-x-**

"Anyone home? I bring gold and the smell of stupid, dead people."

Hawke grunts as he looks around his hovel and finds no one there. Shepard sniffs curiously at the surroundings, gives a quick bark of appraisal and launches himself on the bed. It groans under his weight but manages to hold strong – even if Hawke is certain a wooden slat manages to fall free.

"They must have gone out," Hawke muses, rubbing his beard. "Probably with Saemus. Or Carver's gone to collect Bethany from the sewers."

It's not exactly a new thing for Hawke to come back to an empty home. He's used to his siblings having lives of their own, though he wishes they would take the time to leave a note. Sure, they might not have much money to spare for letters and may have to scrape the old ink off first, but they still know how to write! He sighs, rubs his hands together and quickly uses the privy, since no one else is going to run in on him.

He smiles as he thinks back to Isabela, promising him untold fortunes, should he decide to come and visit her. She even mentioned completing their duel, telling him that if he can best her, she'll let him do _whatever_ he wants to her.

He's fully aware his face is plastered with a goofy grin. Of course, he had to relent at first, if only to walk Merrill back to her house – otherwise she would probably be found in a week's time, sat atop a beached seal in the docks and wondering why people were worshipping her as a goddess of the sea.

He looks around the room as if to try and find something that will force him to stay. Shepard perks up, whining curiously.

"I'm going out, boy," Hawke tells him. "Be a good dog and wait here for Carver and Bethany."

His reply is nothing more than a grunt before he curls up and starts trying to sleep. Hawke locks the door behind him as he leaves, embracing the bitter wind that Lowtown has to offer. He hears the sounds of whores plying their trade in a nearby alley, complete with shady deals being conducted in the shadows nearby.

He muses that should they feel like doing so, he and his friends could quite easily clean up the streets. Of course, that would also come with the problem of drawing attention and possibly a bounty. He considers that perhaps it's safer to let the streets be filled with crime, for the sake of his own family. Maybe it's cruel, but he will happily let a stranger die so that his family can live.

He arrives at the Hanged Man just as a drunk is being literally thrown out of the door. Hawke casually steps around him, stopping only to kick his hand away when he grabs for his boot.

"Hawke!" Varric cheers, noticing him instantly. He's got a crowd around him already, Hawke notices, all enthralled with another story. Perhaps it's another one about the dragon-lady and how he supposedly flew to Kirkwall on her back.

He shudders at the thought. He doesn't trust that witch any more than Anders trusts anyone who's not a mage. Varric smiles widely as Hawke walks through the doorway and is nearly knocked over by the smell of stale beer.

"I knew you couldn't stay away for long," he says loudly. "Try not to burst into a giggling fit. Andraste only knows I could never look you in the eye again if Junior is better with women that you are."

"Thank you, Varric," Hawke says through gritted teeth. His first reaction, naturally, was to grab his crotch and tell him that therein lies the only eye Varric is level with. He knows Varric will take the joke well, but he sees the familiar faces in the crowd that he knows will start trouble the moment someone says something bad to Varric. The dwarf might be aware of them, he might not, but Hawke doesn't want to anger mercenaries that the Merchant's Guild have hired – especially those that look like they could pick him up and use him as a sword.

"Good luck, Hawke," Varric says with a grin, "I'll buy you a pint if you're in there longer than an hour."

Hawke goes with the most mature option he can think of; sticking his middle finger up at the dwarf. Varric laughs and sweeps his people back into another tale of something Hawke assumes has to be grandiose and insane. He finds his way up the stairs towards the rooms without much hassle – other than a few drunks asking him for coin and one man, rambling to himself about there being more mages around than he remembers.

Hawke dismisses them without a moment's thought. He stops in front of the room he knows to be Isabela's and finds his heart suddenly running just a bit faster. He frowns at himself and only barely stops from hitting himself in the face. This is nothing new to him! He's been with women before, countless times and he's never felt this stupid bundle of nerves before! He tells himself that this is just a visit to a very promiscuous woman… a visit which will likely start off with a duel of one kind and end with another.

He's about to knock on the door when it opens, revealing Isabela behind. She smiles at him, her hair wet and fixed over her face and shoulders. She wears nothing more than a bright white towel that Hawke's certain is about to burst open at any moment.

"Hawke!" Isabela says cheerily. "So good of you to visit. Did you bring me a gift?"

For a dreadful moment, Hawke realises that no, he doesn't have a gift and that's going to make her shut the door on him and never see the sight of her dripping wet and nearly naked again. He swallows and banishes the thought, covering it with as much bravado as he can.

"I'll say," he says with a smirk, "it's packed dreadfully tightly though. I'm afraid you'll have to help me to get it free."

She snorts a laugh. "I think I can deal with that." She doesn't give him even a moment to react before she snatches his belt and drags him into her room. He barely manages to take in the collection of daggers strewn across a wooden table, the large bed made up in the corner of the room and the fireplace roaring, cooking something extremely spicy before Isabela pounces at him, her towel holding up remarkably well.

Hawke falls back and catches himself on a small table. Isabela leans over him, water running from her hair. Maker, he can feel the heat radiating off of her! She smiles at him, drawing a finger ever-so-slowly up the length of his arm.

"Well," she says slowly, like she's considering meat at a market, "I do hope this gift is in working order. You wouldn't believe how many times I've been let down by a gift that wasn't able to meet my demands."

A sudden switch goes off in Hawke's brain as her fingers wrap around his arm. He flips her so that she's against the table and smiles at the quick take of breath she can't stop. He trails his fingers across her leg, never taking his eyes off of hers, daring her to look away with only a small smile. "I think you'll find," he says, his words moving as slowly as his fingers, "that this gift will never let you down." He leans in close, suddenly bold as a little moan comes forth from Isabela's lips. He presses his mouth against her neck and is rewarded with the smell of her hair. It's like limes, spices and the sea, all at once.

Her fingers bury themselves deep in his hair. "You're a tease," she accuses. "And here I thought you came here for a duel." She laughs, but she pulls his head closer to her neck as she does so.

"There are many types of _duels_," Hawke says.

"Indeed there are."

Hawke barely notices her hand move away from his head. He's lost in the smell, the feel, the _heat_ of her. He brushes her hair from her neck and hears her laugh as his beard tickles against her skin.

Only barely does he register her moving away and the flash of silver in time. He throws himself backwards as a blade appears in her hand and nearly cuts his face off. Panting, he looks up at her and finds amusement written across her face.

"I thought you wanted a duel?" she asks innocently, stroking a finger across her blade. "You've been talking the talk so much, Sweet Thing, I wanted to see if you could multitask. I do like a man that can do two things at once."

The flirtation is lost on him. His heart is still racing and his brain and body are sending him two different ideas at once. Finally he recovers control of his body in order to point at her blade and squeak, "Where did _that_ even come from?"

"I have many secrets," she says, tapping the blade against her cheek. "I have even more tricks up my sleeve. As for this," – she spins the blade in her hand without even looking at it – "I find that sometimes, all you need is a little adrenaline to make things _really_ exciting. So how about it Hawke?" She meets his eyes, her fingers moving deftly across her chest. He can't help but look as they grab the top of her towel and rip it free from her body.

He's more than a little surprised to find that she's wearing a blouse and incredibly small pants underneath. He's treated to a marvellous view of her body, sculpted as it is underneath the wet clothes that cling to her.

"Can you still duel, if you're distracted like this?"

She doesn't even give him the chance to answer. She leaps at him with deadly speed. He doesn't even have a chance to draw his own daggers and defend himself. He moves by instinct alone; catches her blade on the thick padding of his elbows, sweeps his hands around her wrist and makes a grab for her blade.

She seems to expect it. She spins around, him, letting him grab the blade for a moment. He goes to throw it away but stops as he feels her hands slide around his waist and retreat quickly, leaving him noticeably lighter than before.

"These are nice," Isabela says, spinning his daggers in her hands, "mind if I borrow them?"

She attacks again. Hawke curses her and kicks a pot in her way. She laughs and jumps over it without even a pause. Hawke slides between her arms as she lands, grabs her chest and pins her against the nearby wall. He feels the daggers pressed against his back, the hilts digging in between his shoulder blades. More than that, he feels the heat that comes from Isabela as she moves her legs to make herself more comfortable.

She makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh. She slides his leg over his, hooks her foot behind his knee and suddenly the floor slams painfully into Hawke's back. He gasps painfully, distantly thanking the Maker that she threw the daggers to one side before he fell on them.

"Well, well, well," Isabela says, her hair falling down and brushing over his nose, "so you do have some fight in you."

He growls and spins her over. She doesn't object, even as they roll into a cabinet and something smashes against the floor nearby. She laughs, grabs his head and pulls him in deep for a kiss. He can't argue with that. She rolls over him, knocks them into something else and pulls back, her eyes burning with victory as she shows him a dagger that she's pulled free from Maker-knows-where.

"Face it Hawke," she says, holding the dagger to his throat, her mouth against his ear, "you're just not good enough to beat me in a duel."

He snatches her hand before she can move away. His hand wraps around hers and pries the dagger away. Before she can make a grab for it, he drops it against the floor and knocks it away with his elbow. Isabela pouts and yelps as Hawke flips her over once more. She grabs for something again but Hawke slides his hand against hers, linking their fingers together.

"I'm learning your tricks, Isabela," he says, his face just above hers.

"Oh, Sweet Thing," she laughs, "Isabela has lots of tricks – she might even teach you some of them." She grabs him by the collar, pulls him down and kisses him.

**-x-X-x-**

The world comes to her in a spinning haze. Bethany groans and places a hand against the side of her head. Her _everything_ hurts. Her spine tingles with the pure, unadulterated fear that she knows means that the Veil has been torn apart somewhere nearby.

Everything comes back to her slowly. She remembers attacking their estate. She remembers the traps, Charade disarming them, the blood magic as it tore through their bodies, Carver being felled by a phantom hand –

_Carver!_

The world suddenly springs into focus. She smells the acrid harshness of mould. The sounds of water dripping constantly wraps against her ears. She feels cold, hard stone against her cheek and bolts straight upright, her eyes snapping open and treating her with the grim ruin of a dungeon that makes even her hovel seem like a royal palace.

She's in the cages they'd found within the Amell estate, she realises. Bethany swears as she launches to her feet and presses her hands against them. Charade is in the cage with her, unconscious and with a huge welt on her head. Bethany sees the blood starting to dry on the woman's blouse and checks her wound. It's opened again, but Bethany heals it as best she can.

She spins around and searches for Carver. She finds him in the cage across the room from them, alive but clearly not with it. Saemus has been dropped in the cage too, both of them stripped of their weapons and left to rot.

Footsteps echo from somewhere in the shadows. Bethany watches as the door swings open, revealing a man in purple robes. His face is hidden behind the shadows of his cowl, but Bethany sees the bright blue of his eyes that burn like ice. She shudders and back away involuntarily. She does _not_ want to be near this man, whatever the cost!

"Four fledgling heroes," the man says, his accent clearly Tevinter. "We should have killed you where you stood, but two strong men and two fertile, young women happen to fetch wondrous prices at auction. You however," he says, staring at Bethany and making her stomach boil over in hatred and fear both, "you're a mage. Great things lay ahead of you, my fellow mage. Promise yourself to me, as my apprentice, and I shall teach you things you never thought possible. I will show you the world and how to hold it in your hand. I will even make sure your friends are sold to kind nobles, rather than miners or something worse."

Bethany feels her emotions boil up inside her. She hears the whispers of the Fade; the demons and their false promises. _Allow us in_, the whisper, _we will give you the power you want._

She shuts them down by habit alone. _Magic serves that which is best in me, not most base._ Father's words. She clings to them, makes them her shield and her support.

"You," she says, approaching the cage bars, "are nothing more than a little whelp of a man who will get exactly what's coming to him." She feels the rage build up. She knows exactly what the man plans to do to her – to do to her cousin too. She sees it in his eyes. She sees that Carver and Saemus may even suffer the same, or worse. She sees the man killing Carver in her mind's eye. She sees a hundred different situations, all ending with her brother beaten, starved and dying.

She sees Carver skewered by the sword again, the shock on his face and the way his blood ran freely over her hands.

"Do you really think I would choose to serve you, over protecting my family? My friends?" The air around her begins to heat up. She feels it rolling of her in waves. She lends a little bit more of her power to it, ignoring the calls of the demons as she does so. "I would sooner see you _burn_ than ally myself with you."

The cage bars moan and warp. Fire bursts into existence from the Fade, brought into life by Bethany's will alone. She directs it against the metal of her cage and watches the bars become red-hot. They stretch in front of her eyes, fall apart and sag to the floor. The man – the _blood mage _– yelps and reaches for a dagger. Bethany glares at him and his robes burst aflame.

He screams. Guards in the halls answer his cries. Bethany pays them no mind. She simply wants them all to _burn_. Guards pour in, weapons drawn. She sees them all trying to kill her, trying to kill Carver.

She washes her eyes over them, and they each burst into flame.

Their skin starts to melt. Fire pours free from their mouths. Their eyeballs puddle in the bottom of their sockets, their tongues fuse against the roofs of their mouths.

"You want me to become your _apprentice_?" Bethany hisses as she approaches the blood mage, fire bursting into life beneath her feet. She reaches down for him, picks him up by the collar and looks him dead in the eye. She sees his fear, sees him plead for his life and she _smiles_.

"I'm more powerful that you could ever hope to be," she snarls. She tosses him aside like he weighs nothing. He goes to run. She clicks her fingers and the room loses all heat at once. The mage freezes over, becoming solid ice in an instant.

"_This_ is why mages are feared," she says to no one in particular. She reaches over to Carver with her mind and fixes everything that's wrong with him. He stirs, but she's already moved on, healing Charade and then Saemus.

Carver startles awake, alarm in his face. "S-sister?" he chokes.

"You're always trying to protect me, brother of mine," Bethany says. She looks from him to the corpses of slavers, still burning on the floor. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps, I don't need protecting?"

She smiles at him, but he recoils away in fear. Bethany can't understand why. _This_ is the power the Maker has given her. _This _is _her_ power, without the aid of demons. She sweeps her gaze over the room, sees her friends, her _family_ looking at her like she's become possessed and feels pity for them.

"An apostate should never remain in one place for too long," Bethany says, recalling Father's words from long ago. She considers them, the wheels in her mind turning faster than she ever thought possible. She reaches into her knowledge and finds spells she had barely been able to process now simpler than breathing itself.

"Take care of yourself, brother," she says, offering one last glance at Carver. She reaches into her magic, finds the spell Merrill had only begun teaching her and masters it without any real effort. The ground beneath her groans, warps and swallows her up without complaint.

She emerges several hundred miles away on a beach in the middle of the night. She's alone, the wind whipping in her hair, the gulls ahead screeching to each other, ignoring the small woman who has appeared beneath them.

Bethany looks around and considers her options. She has no coin. She doesn't know where she is. Her staff is missing, the blood of slavers still fresh on her hands. She pays it no mind.

She's _free_. That's all that matters now.


	7. The Morning After: Part One

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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_Chapter Seven; The Morning After - Part One  
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**-x-X-x-**_  
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"_Sex, my darling, is a wonderful art that should come as naturally as breathing to a goddess such as yourself."_

Isabela wakes feeling like the world is her oyster. Strange that it would be Zevran's words she would hear floating around, drawing her back from the Fade. Oh, how the days have changed since before she found out what the people of the world were truly capable of, given a naked body and some spirits.

She stretches like a cat, groaning as she feels her muscles unwind and her bones pop. She sees dawn come in through her window and wonders just how long she's actually managed to sleep. Where's a sundial when she needs one?

She grins, regardless of the fact she lacks a means to tell time. She remembers it being still dark when she finally fell asleep, though she knew it was close to morning. Despite having almost no sleep - and she's not going to complain about what kept her awake - she feels remarkably well rested.

She sits up in bed and feels her hair fall down around her shoulders. From her side a soft snore emits from Hawke. She looks at him, smiling as she traces a finger along his spine. She's half-tempted to flip him over and take full advantage of his morning glory. She can count so many that she's kicked out of bed straight after the fact; simply because she knew they weren't worth waking up next to come morning. Of course, there've been a few men and a number more women that she found were nothing short of _amazing _the morning after.

She sighs and considers Hawke. He has a handsome face, despite the scar across his nose - it was the first thing she noticed about him. That grin gives him a boyish charm, while the rugged beard makes him undeniably unattractive.

Why is she thinking such things? She shakes her head and forces clarity back into it. This is a simple thing; no muss, no fuss. She's still slightly surprised that he doesn't smell of wet dog, despite the fact that he's got that huge, hairy beast that he takes with him everywhere. His mabari is quite fearsome too.

She laughs to herself, unashamed. Hawke stirs slightly, rolls over and the covers fall off him completely. Isabela rolls her gaze over him appreciatively before deciding that there's no way he'll complain if she does wake him in the way she has planned.

She's already astride him when his eyes finally flutter open. He squints at her, as if he's trying to remember just what happened the night before when he suddenly laughs and presses his hands over her hips.

"I could get used to being woken up like this," he says, smiling boyishly.

Isabela laughs. "Oh, Sweet Thing. There won't be anything to get used to if you don't put your mouth to a better use."

He obliges almost immediately. Isabela hums in contentment. No matter what country she's in or what language they're speaking, people are always the same. Promise them sex and they're like putty in your hands.

She's just starting to truly enjoy herself when something scratches against her door. She pretends she doesn't hear it and focuses entirely on her fun. It happens again and she frowns, which makes Hawke seem to think he's doing something wrong and his efforts are redoubled immediately. She would laugh if she wasn't so busy sounding her appreciation.

She doesn't hear anymore scratching against the door. She begins to forget all about it when suddenly there's a tremendous _crash_and her door goes flying off its hinges.

She reacts immediately. She leaps off Hawke - slightly sorry to do so - rolls across her bed and pulls free a dagger she's hidden in the gap between the mattress and the wall. She spins, dagger in hand to cut the fool who dares barge into her room -

And instead she finds a mabari leaping on Hawke and whining continuously.

The sight of it makes Isabela forget her previous alarm and anger. Hawke, naked as a babe and trying to cover himself up whilst simultaneously trying to keep his mabari off him is too much for her to handle. She bursts out laughing and has to lean against the wall just to keep herself from actually falling over. Hawke's embarrassed screams don't help and suddenly there are tears streaming from her eyes.

Oh, sweet gods above, she's actually not that bothered about missing out on sex just because this is too damned funny and stupid to _actually_ be happening!

"I have to say Hawke," she says between laughs, "that I don't quite know what Fereldans may be into, but even _I _draw the line at having a mabari in my bed."

He doesn't laugh, which is the first sign that tells Isabela that something is wrong. She frowns at him, wondering just what it could be. She's funny - she's fully aware of that fact. Clearly the problem isn't her jokes. Hawke seems not to notice her now, so enraptured is he with his dog. He doesn't even seem aware of the fact that he's stark bollock naked, legs spread and jewels displayed for the world to see.

Which they very well might, considering Isabela's door is still wide open and she can hear people wondering what all the noise is about and shouting about a mabari charging through.

She hears Hawke speak to his dog and tries not to roll her eyes. Sure, she's heard tales of how mabaris are meant to understand human language. She doesn't doubt that some of them are smarter than many of the men she's met. Still, somehow she doesn't quite understand how he can talk to the dog like it's having a complete conversation with him.

She picks her door back up and leans it against the doorframe. She sighs, dusts off her hands and turns to Hawke. "Thanks for your help. I'm all for men letting women have power, but making us replace broken doors without help is a _little _bit insulting."

He doesn't answer her. In fact, he's already throwing his clothes on, looking like he's seen a demon.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly, barely even sparing her a glance. "I need to go. Shepard wouldn't have come here unless something wasn't wrong. If he's here, that means my brother and sister aren't home yet. And if they're not home, something might have happened."

Isabela laughs. "Sweet Thing, I'm sure they're fine."

"You don't understand," he says fiercely. "My sister's a mage."

She falls silent at that. Well, what can she actually say? A mage in the city where Templars run rampant? She doesn't understand why any mage would want to be here. It would be like her living in a qunari compound, continually trying to hide from them for all her life.

Well, there happens to be that big compound in the docks. Bugger. She's not good at analogies - even in her own head, it seems.

"Do you need any help?"

The question surprises her just as much as it does Hawke. Why did she even ask it? This is supposed to be just _sex_. Sure, he helped her out with Hayder, but she's paid him back for that - and then some. He got to keep Hayder's daggers after all - she's been dreaming about using them ever since she found out he was after her.

Well, she can't really take back the offer now, can she? Either way, before she can, Hawke's face lights up in a way that makes her feel guilty for even _considering_letting him walk out of her room alone.

"You don't have to," he says quickly, but she can hear the tremor in his voice. How strange, to find someone that values their family so much. She wonders if her mother has ever spared her a second thought after she traded her away like a goat.

Bitch.

"I wouldn't have offered otherwise." Where are these words even coming from? She feels exposed suddenly, and it's not from the fact that she's stood there naked in front of him. It's like he's seeing that she's not as callous as she likes to pretend she is. She's paying back a favour, she's tells herself. That makes her feel better. He helped her out with Hayder, she'll help him find his siblings.

"Thanks," he says, so earnestly that she honestly feels a little sick. Her gut starts to warn her to run, _fast_. He doesn't seem like the type to have simple no strings fun. This man actually _cares_about people. It unnerves her.

"Get dressed," he says. She feels like a child suddenly. He doesn't look at her appreciatively anymore. Instead his face is filled with an apology that she doesn't quite understand. Blast! Why is this man so confusing? Why is she even thinking this much about it? She should have drunk more last night. Being hungover would be the _perfect _excuse right about now.

"I'm going to find Varric," he tells her. He doesn't even say goodbye before he moves her door and disappears out of it. Well, she's not exactly unused to people slipping away the morning after without a goodbye - she's done the same many times before.

She shrugs to herself and tries to find her blouse. _Where _did she throw the damned thing last night? She could always wander outside with barely more than a strap around her breasts - she wonders what Varric would say to that.

Ah, Varric. That's one dwarf she wants the pleasure of getting to sail with. Usually she doesn't hold much opinion towards dwarves - in her experience, their ideas of sex seem to be 'find a hole, poke it in and thrust until you're done.' Even the women are particularly lacklustre and selfish. Granted, she admires their selfish attitude, but not while she's the one sleeping with them!

But Varric... Isabela gets the feeling that he _knows _what to do with a woman. Would she be able to seduce him though? He seems to only put it about with other dwarves - she doesn't see why he'd cut down so many of his options like that, but what should she care? If she manages to bed him, it'll just be one more rumour that she can add to her ever growing collection.

She frowns as she leaves her room, fully dressed and sees the state of the door. She walks back in, finds a few small traps that she's left lying around and hooks them up to her doorframe. If anyone's stupid enough to try and burgle her now, there won't be much left of them. Granted, there won't be much left of the _tavern_, but she sees it as only fair - they let people in to steal her stuff, so they pay the price.

She struts downstairs and finds Varric waiting by the door, his face deadly serious for once. Isabela doesn't think she's seen him without a grin on his face since she arrived in Kirkwall. She's watched him for some time - after all, people had said he was the man to go to for information. Granted she'd ended up with Lucky instead, but that was only because Varric seemed a lot harder to wrap around her little finger.

He looks up at her and doesn't even manage to smile. "Come on, Rivaini," he says, already moving out of the door. "Hawke's gone to find Merrill and I've sent a runner to find Aveline. I don't want to say it, but the idea of Sunshine out and about with only Junior to protect her makes me worry."

Isabela nods like she's fully aware of who he's talking about. She recalls Merrill as that darling elf that's so clueless about everything. She has such pretty eyes - Isabela wonders what they'd look like half-closed, in the throes of ecstasy. The thought vanishes as quickly as it comes. Merrill's that ditsy though that even Isabela would feel bad taking advantage of her.

Aveline - well, she can't forget the guardswoman who's got it in for her. All her teasing towards the woman and no sign of her budging. Blast. Isabela might not like the prude, but surely she has to use that aggression in some way?

Junior and Sunshine... well, she guesses they have to be the other Hawkes. As the cold air of Lowtown washes over her, Isabela checks her daggers and makes a show of stretching and letting her blouse ride up. Varric doesn't even so much as glance at her stomach. Blast.

"So Hawke..." she says, "what're his siblings like?"

"His sister's a lovely girl," Varric says without even looking at her. He leads her towards the alienage - she can already smell the canal. He takes a turn she's not familiar with and Isabela finds herself stood in front of a shack she hadn't paid much attention to before now. Inside are two guards, who bow almost immediately at the sight of Varric and let them through.

A secret passage? Isabela dances with the thought of it. How did she not know about this? She's going to have to take advantage of this! The stone seems orange, lit up by the torches that line the walls, but at least it's not the depressing stone of the mines. Isabela shudders. Every time she goes down there, it feels like she's risking not ever coming back up again.

"Bethany's her name," Varric tells her, "she's young, but so much older than she should be. Been an apostate all her life, with her brothers constantly protecting her. I don't think they've realised that _they_need protecting as much as her - she's a smart girl, but I think the fact that her brother's lives are entirely revolved around protecting her makes her feel a bit shitty."

Isabela hums an agreement. She knows the sort - she's seen so many families that are ingrained into protecting one person above all others. It always ends badly - someone else dies or something happens to the person they're meant to protect and suddenly, the entire family falls apart.

"Junior... Carver's an ass," Varric says bluntly. Isabela laughs. Their voices echo slightly in the passage, but not enough to carry too far. "To put it the nice way; he's got a younger brother complex. Always trying to outdo Hawke, always trying to prove that he's the best there is. It's a little bit annoying, to be kind. Handy with a blade, but he's prone to rushing into things without thinking. Half the time when Hawke brings him along, it usually ends up with one of us having to pull his ass out of the fire."

Isabela frowns as she considers it. "So little brother's gone missing, with little sister. Little brother also happens to desperately prove to big brother that he's better than him." She sighs. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That Junior's been an ass and buried himself in shit he can't get out of? Yeah." Varric quiets as the door in front of them starts to open. "Why else do you think we're all rush, rush right now?"

The door in front of them opens, but Isabela finds they're not the ones to walk through. Instead it's Hawke, his mabari and the delightfully clueless elf. The poor dear looks like she's only just woken up, but Isabela can see something strong in her. She's got backbone - Isabela can see that much. But the way she holds herself makes Isabela think she doesn't have the confidence to use it. Hardly surprising, given that she's clearly Dalish. The way she looks at everything like it's something completely alien to her reminds Isabela of herself - back when she was sold... not that she's thinking about that. Ever.

Still, Merrill reminds her a little of her lost innocence. "Are you alright, Kitten?" she asks her. While she's in Kirkwall, Isabela decides that she's going to take this elf under her wing and make sure that she doesn't end up with the same shitty mistakes and cock-ups that Isabela's made.

"I don't see a kitten anywhere," Merrill answers. "Unless you're talking to me. But I'm not a kitten - unless I look like I've grown fur. I mean, we elves might have strange ears to you humans, but I'm fairly certain I don't look like a cat. I hope not anyway. Could you imagine how dreadfully tiresome it would be to try and keep all of that fur clean?"

Yes, Isabela decides that this woman _clearly _needs someone to look out for her.

"I haven't heard from Bethany or Carver at all today," Merrill says suddenly, looking to Hawke. Isabela sees the admiration in her eyes as plain as day. She feels suddenly like she's encroached on turf she should have never gone near. Sure, sex is one thing, but she feels _guilty_that this woman so obviously admires him. Balls. When did her life get so complicated? Isabela decides that as soon as this is over, she's going straight to the Rose, drinking an entire bottle of rum and spending all the coin she likes on all the whores she wants.

"Bethany said she was going to work with Anders for most of the day," Hawke says. Isabela doesn't miss the dark tones in his voice, nor the way his mabari growls at the mention of the man's name. Isabela's heard of Anders, of course. Can't go anywhere in Kirkwall without hearing mentions of the healer in Darktown, after all. Something must be up with him though - she gets the feeling that Hawke isn't wary of him simply for being a mage. There must be something else there.

So much mystery, so little time in the world. Isabela wonders how she's gone from simply dealing with fools to being thrown into the middle of insanity in such a short space of time.

"I think Junior was with the Viscount's boy again," Varric says. "There's an awful lot of talk going round about him spending time with - as the nobles put it - _'a thug from the slums'._"

More gossip and intrigue. _How_ did Isabela not come across these people sooner? She feels like they're connected to everyone and _anyone _in Kirkwall. The Viscount's son? Seems like quite a friend to have.

"Of course," Varric says, "this is also in between the gossip of the Viscount's boy spending time with _godless heathens_, as they so like to call the qunari."

Isabela nearly stops and falls over her feet. Thankfully she manages to keep walking, back up the way they came towards Lowtown. The Viscount's boy is spending time with qunari? Oh, bugger and blast. What if these people are friends with qunari too? She forces her face to remain an impassive mask. They can't be friends with them, because that prudish guardswoman would probably burst a blood vessel at the thought. Either way, Isabela decides that she needs to keep these people close, and keep an eye on the Viscount's son, if he's so truly connected to their group.

Lowtown's dawn sky greets them again. As they make their way towards the entrance to Darktown, Isabela sighs to herself. She was so looking forward to a simple night of drink and sex. Why did she ever suggest coming along?

The prude finds them just outside the entrance to the mines. Even without her guard uniform on, the woman still cuts an imposing sight. Isabela considers her quickly. Most women would look unattractive with muscles so large. Prude makes them work, somehow. Of course, it's not like Isabela would mention that to her. She'd likely get a smack for her efforts - and not in the way that would be any fun.

"You'll not get any coin out of this, Whore," the prude says to her. "We're looking out for our friends - our _family _here."

She's such an alpha-bitch, Isabela's half tempted to throw her down and beat her bloody then and there. "I offered to help out of the kindness of my heart, dear guardswoman," she says, not entirely sarcastically. "Surely you're not opposed to getting outside help - from what I hear, the guards in Kirkwall are that lacklustre, the only way things get done is by someone else doing it."

That glare is quite impressive, Isabela has to admit. Had she not sailed with sailors and spent time with assassins, she may have even reconsidered her words. But Isabela has learnt many things and seen much more, so she meets the glare with a simple, patronising smirk.

"Keep your comments to yourselves," Hawke says and there's not a trace of humour in his voice. Isabela's quite surprised to hear such tranquil fury coming from him. They walk into the entrance of the mines and Isabela feels her heart tighten. Merrill lights a ball of flame at the tip of her staff to help them see, but somehow that just makes things worse.

There are old ruins down here - Isabela has seen them. The entire place sets her on edge. It feels so dreadfully _wrong_in the depths. It feels like every choice she makes down here is being altered somehow to be the wrong one. She's waiting for the shadows to come and pluck out her eyeballs. There's a power down here than makes her blood tingle in ways that it shouldn't.

Kirkwall is simply _wrong_and Isabela hates everything about it.

A rat scurries across her boot, as if to prove her thoughts correct.

"This place is so dismal," Merrill comments. "And everything here is cold, hard stone. I wish I'd worn shoes with soles now."

Isabela glances down and sees the simple wraps that cover Merrill's feet, but leave her toes poking free. What is it with elves and leaving their feet out? Sure, having your feet bare in something like a cold pool is an amazing feeling, but Isabela wouldn't want to walk over some places without any shoes on - especially not here, in the mines, where she's not even certain if what she's treading in is simply rock or something she'd rather not think about.

"Cheer up, Kitten," Isabela says. "This will all be over soon and we'll be free to stay in the sunlight, where we'll never have to wander down in dark tunnels like this again."

"Until Hawke goes into the Deep Roads."

"Exactly," Isabela says without hearing her. "Until Hawke - _what_? Is she serious?"

Hawke doesn't answer her. He's busy having a conversation with his mabari, wondering if he can smell either of his missing siblings. Instead it's Varric who answers her question.

"A venture into the Deep Roads," he says, as if he's trying to convince her to fund them. "We're heading out in a few weeks, when we've got the coin together. It's a sure-thing; go down there, beat a few darkspawn, come back with treasure and be rich enough to live the rest of our lives without ever worrying about coin!"

Well, when he puts it like that, Isabela can see the sense in it. But the _Deep Roads?_ Balls to that. She remembers Denerim and how quickly that went to shit. She's just thankful she got out before the hoard hit - even if she had to take out one or two darkspawn that were randomly wandering in her path. She remembers them coming at her during the night, erupting from _below_her damned tent and trying to pull her down with them. They stunk worse than anything she can ever remember and she can recall vividly the way their blood boiled and oozed over the grass as she stabbed them to death.

No, she's never again going near one of the bastards, not if she can help it. And if Hawke wants to wander down into their home, well more's the pity for him. Just means that in a few weeks' time, he'll be dead on some darkspawn's blade and Isabela will need a new person to help her out when Castillon comes knocking.

The glow of the lantern starts Isabela from her thoughts. She isn't even aware of when they got to the healer's clinic, but it's about time. The doors are still open, which isn't all that surprising given what Isabela's heard about the place.

"Anders!" Hawke shouts and runs towards a man in robes. Isabela frowns. He looks familiar, though from where, she can't remember. He's probably one of her conquests somewhere along the way. Ah well, if she can't remember him, he clearly wasn't worth remembering.

"Bethany's missing," Hawke says to him. "So's Carver. Are they here? Please tell me they're here?"

"They're not," Anders says softly. He dries his hands on a rag and looks like he's as worried as Hawke seems to be. "There was a woman who came in here yesterday who had been set upon by slavers. Bethany and I healed her. Afterwards, Bethany spent a lot of time with her, simply talking. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I did. Apparently this woman is your cousin."

Hawke blinks. That's his only reaction. At any other time, Isabela would laugh. She gets the feeling that maybe she should remain quiet for now.

"I didn't even know I _had _a cousin."

"Apparently you do," Anders says. "From what I gathered, it seems that she went to your uncle, but he tossed her out on the street, thinking her nothing more than a con-woman. It seems that she had information pertaining to your family's heritage - an estate, here, in Kirkwall."

Well, that certainly is something. Isabela glances over at him and sees that Hawke is just as much in the dark towards it as she is. It's only when Varric clears his throat does Isabela realise that there's even more here than she first thought.

"I didn't want to tell you this Hawke," Varric says, "but the Amells used to be nobles here in Kirkwall. That much I knew you knew already. What you didn't know is that your uncle sold off the estate to pay off his debts. To whom, I'm still trying to figure out. I was going to surprise you with it once you had the coin for the trip, that way we could buy them out if they were legit, or kick them out if they weren't."

Hawke doesn't have much of a reaction. It's somewhat surprising. Isabela's used to seeing people that go all googly-eyed when they're told their family has money. In contrast, Hawke just seems pissed that he doesn't know where his family is. She gets the feeling he'd give up the estate here and now to see his family and know that they're safe.

"Any ideas about this?" Hawke asks them. "Aveline?"

She shrugs. "Can't say, Hawke. The records aren't anywhere in the Keep - if I'd have found any, I'd have let you know."

"I don't know who lives there, but I get the feeling that it wasn't anyone good," Anders tells them. "Bethany and this woman seemed to be plotting something. Your brother was involved shortly afterwards. They left here at about dusk yesterday, with the Viscount's boy in tow." He laughs suddenly. "That one seriously needs to work on his disguises. Even from a distance, it was still dreadfully obvious he wasn't native to the slums."

Hawke breathes a slow breath out of his nose. "Do you know where they went?"

Anders shrugs. "Can't say. If you'll have me though, I'll lend you my magic. If they've been gone for this long, they may need healing."

The look that crosses Hawke's face shows that he's clearly hoping they don't. "Fine," he says, pinching his nose. He bends down to his dog and grasps its cheeks in his hands. "Shepard, I need you to track Bethany and Carver. Can you do that for me, boy?"

The dog barks as if answering. Isabela doesn't know whether or not it actually is. Hawke seems to take it as an answer, so she supposes that's all they need on the matter. The dog takes off running out of the clinic and they have to sprint to keep up with it.

She nearly bursts out laughing, mid-run. _This _is the sort of adventure she's used to, even if it is now simply chasing after a mabari, rather than a fleeing dragonling or precious cargo. She hears Anders curse from somewhere behind them, moaning about having to collect his staff. A joke flies across her mind and makes her snort a laugh, even as she strides after the mabari and its owner.

At once they stop, waiting in front of a little tunnel that's slowly spewing out _green_over the floor. Isabela isn't certain whether it's solid or liquid - it reminds her of jelly, the way it gloops together, yet it still runs downhill whenever it gets the chance. Whatever it is, Isabela decides that she doesn't want it touching her in any way, shape or form.

"Down here?" Hawke asks, panting. Isabela makes a mental count as the others approach. Merrill is first - it seems she's used to running long distances, chasing a wild creature. Isabela gets the mental image of Merrill happily skipping through the woods, chasing a deer and is hard-pressed to contain her smirk. She nearly bursts out laughing when she imagines Merrill trying to hunt it, then attempting to soothe it and nurse it back to health after she's slapped it around with some magic.

Prude settles her with a glare that could strip paint. Finally Varric and Anders appear, though Isabela is hardly surprised the dwarf comes in last in a race. They all look so funny when they try and run long distances. Perhaps it's the short, stumpy legs.

Regardless, she realises she should really focus now that it appears they have to wander down this tunnel full of green... _stuff._

"Over there," Isabela says after what feels like an eternity wading through all the muck. "There's a door hidden behind a little bit of metal." She points the way and receives another glare from Prude.

"Shit, Rivaini," Varric whispers, "how did you even notice that?"

"The best things are always hidden beneath a layer of something," she says, smirking at him. "I've become somewhat of an expert at finding what I want, even if it's hidden from public view."

"I'll bet," the prude snarls.

"Oh, don't stand there judging me," Isabela sighs, "you're clearly just jealous that no one's bothered to look for Lady Man-Hand's buried treasure."

She watches Aveline turn a variety of different colours, visible even in the low light. Isabela grins so hard it nearly hurts her face, though she's ready for a fight, should the prude want one. Hawke settles a glare on both of them that makes Isabela huff in disappointment. As much as she would _love_ to put this woman in her place, she supposes that they _are_here for more important reasons.

"The lock's been picked," Hawke observes, crouched before the door as he is. "I know for a fact neither Carver nor Bethany can do that. Somehow I doubt Saemus knows how to either."

"Your cousin may know how," Anders supplies, "I did hear Bethany telling her that she reminded her a lot of you."

"Oh sweet Maker." Varric's voice is somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "A female version of Hawke. I'm not sure whether to worry about having two of them, or just warning everyone that no one over legal age is safe anymore."

"I'm not _that _bad!" Hawke moans.

"True," Varric says, and Isabela catches the way he glances over at her. "I think I'd have burst something by now if you were like _that _more often."

Isabela wonders just what he means, though the red burn on Hawke's ears gives her some indication of what they're talking about. Varric just smirks at her, as if he thinks she knows what they're talking about. Well, she's not going to disappoint. She smirks back, pretending that she's completely in the loop, even if all she's able to guess is that Hawke was a complete drooling fool when he wasn't around her.

Not that she's complaining about what he's like when he is with her. She smiles at the thought of two of him entertaining her and finds that yet again, she's succeeded in turning herself on.

"Why would you have burst something, Varric?" Merrill asks, breaking the silence. "Is there something dangerous happening? Or have I missed something again? Was it something dirty? I always miss it whenever you say something dirty."

"Perhaps that's because you're too busy doing deals with _demons_and casting blood magic at people to notice," Anders snarls.

Merrill's a blood mage? Well, Isabela certainly wasn't expecting _that_. Sure, the girl's naive as anything and a mage to boot, but Isabela thought that she would have some savvy about it all. Still, she doubts that Merrill could even harm a butterfly - and if even Prude doesn't object to having her around, maybe she's not as bad as Anders makes out.

"Yes, I'm a blood mage," Merrill sighs, "get over it already, would you? I've told you before; I had no other way of purifying the mirror and trying to find people I cared about. It's not like you're one to judge, Anders. You're the one walking around with a spirit inside him."

And Anders is an abomination. _Great_. Isabela wonders just what the hell she's managed to walk into this time. She finds it interesting though, that they seem to trust Anders less than Merrill - in fact, they went to her for help over him. Trust the woman who can turn your body against you, but not the one who might split through his skin and go all nightmarish-horror? She's intrigued. She shouldn't be, but she is. There's more to the story here, and Isabela wants to find out more.

"Justice was - is - a friend of mine! I did this to help him out. I don't expect you'd understand that - helping someone out, rather than chasing after your own selfish needs!"

And he's named the demon too. Cute. Isabela remembers a woman who claimed she was inhabited by a Spirit of Lust. She never saw the demon come out, but gods above, the stories about her _definitely _weren't made up.

Oh, balls. Did she just say that out loud? Well, it explains the look of contempt she's getting from Aveline. Also the dreamy looks Varric, Hawke and Anders all have. Men. Typical. Give them the thought of two women and they're lost in dream land.

Poor Merrill just looks confused. A little bit intrigued too. Isabela doesn't know whether to hide her away from the world and protect her or simply gather all the coin she can and throw her in the Rose.

"We're getting away from the point," Hawke snarls. He pushes open the door quietly and peeks inside. "No more arguments from here on in. _None_. Maker help me, if any of you start quarrelling again, _I _will shut you up. Permanently."

Isabela's certain she shouldn't be as aroused as she is right now. But that _voice! _Those angry tones! Oh, where's a bit of solitude when she needs it? She isn't certain whether she should go have a cold bath or straight to the brothel. Either way, she needs to do something about this itch.

They take their first few steps into the passage and _by the Maker _it stinks in here! Isabela puts a hand over her nose and tries to ignore the smell of burnt flesh. It settles in the back of her throat like bad port and she's certain there's not enough booze in her room to get the taste of this out.

She doesn't miss Hawke quietly saying his sibling's names. She feels her heart go out towards the man, right before she pulls it back in and slams the door shut on it. She won't get attached to these people. They'll simply keep her in this place, trapped and like a sitting duck for Castillion to come and find her. No, better that after this she keeps moving, making allies in whatever places she can.

"Creators," Merrill whispers, her voice wobbling. "Mythal above, this isn't right. The Veil shouldn't be like this here."

Well, that explains the tingling feeling of cold creeping over Isabela's spine. Possibly the fact that she can smell eggs too.

"It's not so much opened as pulled apart and then destroyed with a sledgehammer," Anders tells them.

"Well... shit," Varric says for all of them.

Isabela grunts and slides her daggers into her hands. The mabari is on its haunches, growling at everything it can see. She's certain something's going to happen soon. She takes her steps, slowly, moving one foot over the other -

And then the ground in front of them splits opens and fire pours out from beneath.

She can't help it. She shrieks. She's not the only one at least. Something crawls out from the depths, like fire given a body. A clumpy, unattractive body, but a body nonetheless. Flames crawl up and down its arms and it doesn't even have legs, just a stump at the bottom that seems to be made from lava.

It _roars_and Isabela feels the heat wash over her. Merrill and Anders counter it with a frost so cold Isabela thinks for a moment that she's outside, trapped in the ocean in the freezing storms. The demon freezes and Isabela leaps at it, her daggers cutting patterns into its flesh.

The ice melts almost immediately. Isabela has to leap backwards to escape the heat. Sweat's already dripping from her chin, sliding between her breasts and lower. She knows that were they not in danger right now, someone would see her and lose all control. She frowns as she paces around the beast, keeping to the shadows and watching as it strikes the prude with heavy blows. She hides under her shield, sweating as much as Isabela. The hound is baying at the creature, for it's too hot to get anywhere close. Varric's bolts seem to burst into flames before they can even touch the creature.

It becomes a game of cat-and-mouse, simply stalling the damn thing until Merrill and Anders freeze it again. This time, before Isabela can even charge it, Aveline backhands it with her shield and shatters the demon into a million pieces.

Isabela crunches a frozen piece of demon under her boot. Well, maybe she misjudged her a little. Perhaps getting into a punching match with Aveline wouldn't be one of the wisest ideas.

Hawke doesn't even wait for the demon to fall before he's already moving on to another room. Isabela curses and chases after him with everyone else. Again she wonders just why the hell she's doing this. It has to be somewhere close to midday by now. She could still be asleep or drinking her troubles away. Maybe even breaking some ass's face when he sticks it too close to her chest. But no, she's here, in the sewers, chasing missing relatives and fighting things that should be left on the other side of the Veil.

Isabela rounds a corner and slides into a room just as she hears Hawke exclaim, "Carver!" Well, it seems he's found one of them, at least. She looks up, sees metal cages that have been melted away and can't stop a shudder. She remembers Hayder's _cargo_, locked in cages similar to these. At least the bastards responsible here are nothing more than charred husks beneath her feet.

She sees Hawke with a man that's almost his height and by her guess, he hasn't seen even twenty summers. He seems to be built like a mule - if she didn't know better, she would think he was Lady Man-Hands' manlier brother. His muscles though, she can't deny, are pretty fine. She imagines him shirtless, tied up against a wall, glistening in sweat and waiting for her to come towards him, a whip in her hand and -

She should really stop before she turns herself on again.

The woman they're with is attractive too. She recognises the look in her eyes immediately - she's no stranger to petty thievery and a few roguish tricks. She might be worth sailing with, if she happens to dock in that particular port.

The other boy has to be the Viscount's son. Isabela notices immediately the way he doesn't even so much as spare her a second glance. His eyes seem to be for muscle-man, though she sees the way he watches Hawke when he's not looking - and Varric and Anders too. Not one for sailing the smoother water, it seems. Oh well. It's a shame really - he has pretty eyes.

"You're safe," Hawke says. He looks so delightfully awkward - like he doesn't know whether or not he should hug his brother. It's sweet, really. He settles for simply placing his hands on Carver's shoulders. "What happened here? Where's Bethany? Is she alright?"

"Brother, I..." Oh, Isabela doesn't like the grimace that comes across his face. He looks like he's about to be sick and she feels like this is going to end very, _very_badly. His face gets paler and paler and she sees the way Hawke's hands tighten on his shoulders.

"Carver... where's Bethany?"

Isabela wasn't aware anyone could sound so heartbroken and so dangerous at once. She finds herself hoping that this ends well, because _that _tone is not good for anyone.

"I... I don't know," Carver whispers. "I got knocked out and woke up in this cage here and Bethany was already awake and she burnt _everyone_alive down here and melted the bars of her cage to get out. And then, I mean, well, she healed us and when she looked at me, I... well..." He swallows heavily.

"You _what_, Carver?"

"... I think she may have been a little possessed."

The sound of the slap is actually frightening. She winces as if struck herself. Carver himself falls to the floor, his hand flying up to his injured cheek. Hawke stands above him, the back of his hand turning bright red, but it's nowhere near as dark as the colour of his face.

_"Possessed?"_ Hawke screams, his voice bouncing around and coming back twice as loud and angry. "What the hell do you mean _possessed_?"

The Viscount's boy - Saemus, Isabela thinks his name is - attempts to leap to Carver's aid, quite literally. "Serah Hawke," he says, touching Hawke's arm, "please, let us -"

Hawke shoves him away without ever even looking at him. "Do I look like I was talking to _you_?" he growls, and Isabela finds herself honestly quite frightened - though for whom, she's not certain. Aveline looks like she doesn't know whether to punch Carver or help him, whilst Varric and Anders both look like they've been punched in the gut. Merrill's gaze is on the floor and even the mabari seems stunned into silence.

"Brother... I... I don't know," Carver says, though he remains on the floor.

"There was a blood mage here," the woman supplies. She looks up at them and Isabela notices the similarity in her face to Hawke's. Not too striking, but enough to support this whole claim of being cousins. "He was from Tevinter. Said he could take Bethany there and give her power she never dreamed of. She snapped. I don't know what she did or even if she actually is possessed, but she burnt the man alive. Then after she did all this, she made the ground swallow her whole."

"Elgar'nan," Merrill whispers, sounding like she's speaking through water. "I know that spell. Bethany was asking me about it - it's an ancient spell passed down from Keeper to First. We can't use magic to teleport, but we can command the ground to move us long distances in a short space of time. That must be what she used."

Hawke seems to take forever to process this. Finally his shoulders tremble, just a little. Isabela barely has time to blink before he's pulled Carver up by his collar and actually manages to hold him aloft a few inches. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?!" he screams. He roars and suddenly slams Carver against a wall, pinning him there by his neck. _"You were supposed to protect her!"_

"I know," Carver grunts, his face turning purple as Hawke presses his elbow a bit further into his throat.

"What the _hell _were you doing here anyway?"

"This is... our estate. I thought... I thought we could reclaim it. It sounded like... something you'd want. I thought... I thought I could do it before you!"

"This is all to one-up me? _Are you fucking serious?!"_

"Hawke stop!" Aveline shouts as she finally springs into action. Isabela's more than a little relieved. She didn't know what to do and knows she doesn't really have the strength to break them up. Aveline, it seems, does. She pulls Hawke away with some visible effort and stands between both brothers, her hands pressed against both of their chests. "You're going to end up killing him," she says softly.

"I _will_kill him if something's happened to her!"

"No, you won't," Aveline says firmly. "We're going to find Bethany. She's going to be fine. Then we're going to put this entire matter behind us and move on, alright?"

Carver coughs from behind her, rubbing his neck. "Aveline... I-"

She punches him straight in the jaw. Isabela blinks. The sound of it stuns her, makes her immune to the shout Carver makes as he falls to the floor.

"Don't even try to thank me," she snarls. "If Bethany's hurt, your brother isn't the only one you'll have to worry about. You two!" She points at Carver's friends, who up until then looked like they didn't know whether to leap to his defence or run away. "You're coming with me. We're going to start a search party and you're both going to help coordinate the effort."

From the floor, Carver coughs once more. "This… this is meant to be our estate, Brother. This was Bethany's idea. Gamlen sold it to slavers. At least… at least when we find her, we'll have enough money for the Deep Roads."

"Do you really think I'm even _considering_ the Deep Roads at the moment?" Hawke screams. His fists are clenched tight enough that they've gone pure white and blood trickles down from his palms, Isabela notices. She decides that she doesn't need to be around to see anymore – let the family solve the family problems. "Believe it or not, there are some things that are more important than coin, Carver."

Pah, what can be more important than coin? Everything revolves around it. Sure it may be cheap and greedy, but Isabela's never claimed that she has high standards.

She looks away from Hawke, ignores the others and finds Merrill in a corner of the room by herself, staring off into nothing. Isabela places her hands on Merrill's shoulders and squeezes them. "Come on Kitten," she says softly, "let's get you home."

Merrill doesn't argue with her. Isabela catches Varric's eye as she starts to leave. He understands everything in an instant and doesn't judge her for leaving. Isabela likes that in him. She has no business with this family – Hawke only helped her once. She's not staying around for more fireworks.

So she slips off into the darkness, guiding Merrill home and telling herself that she doesn't feel any concern for Hawke and his siblings. Isabela doesn't want complications in her life. She wants it to be easy, filled with fun and adventure. If that means ignoring a family in need of help, so be it. She's done her good deed for the month and that's enough for her. If anyone else cares to say otherwise, Isabela will happily introduce them to the point of her blade. She's lived by other people's rules before. Now she only lives by her own.

And if that makes her a heartless bitch, so be it. Isabela will take being callous and alive over benevolent and dead anyday.


	8. The Morning After: Part Two

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?**  
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_Chapter Eight; The Morning After - Part Two  
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**-x-X-x-**

"_Always stay with your brothers, my darling girl. If ever your father and I cannot protect you anymore, stick with them. You make me proud every day you go without succumbing to demons."_

Her mother's voice drifts through her waking consciousness. Bethany's certain that she remembers the conversation, yet at the same time it feels like it's reaching her ears for the first time. She tries to reach for the voice but she feels reality starting to pull her away from the strange, floating sensation of the dream, memory or Fade demon.

The land she wakes in is unfamiliar. She stirs, shifting against the floor and feels the ground beneath her crumble like dust. Her eyes flicker open slowly, revealing to her a golden expanse of sand beneath her body. She pushes herself up, dripping sand like water after standing in the rain, and sees that around her are rocks and darkness. She wonders just when she arrived in a cave – she can't recall finding one at all. A trickle of water comes down from behind her and the soft calls of frogs and lizards echo from all around. The smell of fresh water forces some clarity into her. She feels sand sticking against her skin, stuck tight from where she sweat overnight.

She raises a hand to her face to rub it off. Everything comes back to her slowly. She tests the stream of water that runs down the walls of her cave, reaching deep into the depths of darkness. Strangely, she feels that there is nothing sinister down there – it almost feels peaceful. The water runs smoothly and doesn't taste too bad. She drinks her fair share and uses some more to wash her hair and face free of sand.

_Where am I?_ she wonders, but dares not to voice it. She remembers the feeling of power that flowed through her – she feels it still, like a second pulse. She knows she's left her brothers – they've spent too long looking after her. They have their own lives to lead – they deserve to be happy, get married and have children, not spending the rest of their lives running from Templars just to protect her. Frankly, she feels that cutting herself away from them will benefit them – so long as they manage to get past trying to blame one another and wallowing in self-pity.

She stands and tests her footing. She remembers setting fire to all those slavers. She remembers everything and is confident there isn't a demon possessing her. She recalls hearing Anders speaking to himself – he seems to have the habit of voicing aloud anything before he writes it down. He complains of blackouts every other week. She can match up the times perfectly to when he's lost control and Justice has appeared instead. Merrill never seems to have had the same problem, though she has a number of scars across her palms and arms where she's turned to blood to fuel her magic.

Bethany sees no such scars across her body. She finds it strange that magic can heal almost any wound, yet scars from blood magic remain forever. Perhaps it's simply a way of marking the mage, she muses.

She decides that she's not going to waste time on such things – just yet, anyway. She needs to figure out where she happens to be. She picks herself up, slides out of her cave and has to block the sun from her eyes with an arm. It's nearing midday, but otherwise all she can see is sand and sea. It's not the Wounded Coast – it's far too pretty for that. She can see a few flowers swaying in the breeze on a grassy bank just above. Gulls screech as they circle above the water, dipping in to attack fish that leap out unwarily. She gestures, muttering a spell that she's never known before, yet seems to be a part of her now. She sees footsteps in the sand. She ignores her own and watches the way others twirl around each other.

They all seem to head north. She shuts her eyes, rubs the effects of magic away and heads north. She feels strange without a staff nearby. Her robes seem to have seen better days, but she imagines that her current state will mark her simply as a poor refugee, rather than a mage.

It feels like she's been walking for the better part of a day when she finally sees people. Four of them, dressed in heavy plate armour, yet not a Templar sign on any of their breastplates. Mercenaries, she decides. Their armour seems too good for bandits, yet not good enough for Grey Wardens. Thankfully they all have their helmets off – she sees that they're all around Garrett's age, if not slightly older. Three have beards, whereas one has shaven recently. Two with skin the colour of charcoal, another with hair as orange as flame and a final man that seems like he's never been able to grow hair in his life.

When they see her, it's the flame-haired one that approaches and speaks. "You alright, lass?" he asks, his accent thick.

She smiles at him. "Fine, thank you. Could you tell me where I am, serah? I seem to have woken up without any knowing where it is I slept."

The men exchange glances, as if they too have partaken in such as experience. Bethany doubts they had the aid of magic in such circumstances.

"You're near Starkhaven," the bald one tells her. His 'o's are long and drawn out. "Word of warnin' to ya; try to steer clear of the city right now. The Vaels have been murdered."

She nearly laughs at the way it sounds in his accent. _Murrdurred._

"Aye," one of the others says. Bethany looks at them both; were it not for the different eyes, she would think both the darker men were twins. As it stands, she sees similarities in their faces. Brothers, she decides.

A pang hits her, cutting deeper than any wound she's received before. She loves her brothers, of course, but she needs to do this for them, she tells herself. Better that she hurts and helps them live their lives, rather than letting them carry on as normal.

"Been a mighty lot of rumours about that," one of the brothers says – he has eyes that shine gold, Bethany notices. The other has duller, browner eyes. "They've been saying it's a ghost that did them in!"

"Nay, Donny, get the stories right," his brother says. "It ain't a ghost – it's an elf that glows blue."

"A glowing blue elf," Golden Eyes snorts. "I think that you've been drinking a bit too much whiskey again, brother."

"Whatever caused it," Fire Hair says, cutting a hand through the air, "everything's gone to shit in Starkhaven right now. The youngest Vael is comin' back this week to clear things out. Take my advice, lass; if you've business in Starkhaven, get it done and get out of there as fast as you can possibly manage. Glowing elves, ghosts or whatever's happening; something mighty _wrong_ is going on in Starkhaven right now."

Bethany nods and thanks them. She can't help but listen to the demands in her brain, telling her to go and investigate. Garrett would do it under the guise of getting coin, but she knows that some part of him wants to help people. Carver would do it, simply to show off to everyone that he's capable of handling something. As for Bethany . . . she's simply curious. She wants to know the truth behind these rumours and senses that somehow, magic is involved.

A tingle runs over her skin at the thought. Starkhaven has a Circle – she's aware of that fact. But now that she's free and able to use her power without the fear of Templars behind every window, she wants to use it as much as humanly possible.

**-x-X-x-**

Starkhaven is amazingly different to Kirkwall, Bethany notices. Even the poorest streets have buildings that are built out of white marble – she sees that almost _everything_ seems to be made out of the material. The streets all converge on little squares, decorated with a large water fountain, from which a statue of Andraste rests. Each pose is different – in some she holds a bowl, others a sword, some a shield and even once she wears the shackles she bore as a slave.

The streets are packed with people that banter in their curious, rolling accent. She tries her best not to smile and giggle like a tiny girl whenever she hears the dulcet tones of a particularly nice brogue.

As packed as the streets are, no one seems to pay any mind to the strange woman that wanders around in sand-soiled robes. Bethany exploits it as much as she can – while she may not be as gifted with quick fingers as her brother is, she isn't exactly a slouch in the department either. She may not be able to cut purses without anyone knowing, but it's rather easy to deftly tuck away produce from stalls – an apple here, a piece of bread there. At one point she feels particularly daring and manages to steal a small silver ring. It has nothing on it, no pattern, nor a jewel, but she wears it on her thumb, simply because it's something that she's managed to do on her own. It can serve as a reminder that she doesn't need to rely on her brothers for everything.

She realises that she's reached the richer district when the conversations die away, replaced with sneers and a fierce silence that hits as heavy as a blow. The houses tower up far higher than they should do, and where there was graffiti on the houses of the poorer districts, the houses of the rich are decorated with creeping ivy and hanging flower baskets.

A palace sits above them all. She's reminded of Kirkwall's Chantry – if it was twice as tall, with towers on either side that flew royal flags and had a veritable army of elves toiling constantly. It's the grandiose nature of the place that enthrals her, though. She wonders just why anyone would want to live in a house so large – though admittedly, she wouldn't mind one herself, but that's mainly so that if Templars ever did come knocking, she could hide on one side of the house and they'd never be able to find her.

"My Lady, I wouldn't go in there, were I you," an elf says as she passes Bethany. She reminds Bethany of Merrill – they have similar hair, though this elf's hair shines with streaks of caramel in the sunlight. Her skin is a shade darker, but the facial tattoos are similar, marking her as Dalish.

"The place is haunted," the elf says. "A glowing phantom that drives the owners crazy. They brought in the Templars, but those that are still alive can't control their minds anymore. Those that died suffered horrible deaths." She leans in close, gesturing for Bethany's ear. "Ser Douglas was among them. He was the best Templar in Starkhaven's Chantry. They melted his eyes in his skull, My Lady! Stay away!"

She leaves quickly, vanishing into the crowd as if she were a ghost. Bethany slides her hand on her hip and stares up at the mansion. It's a tale worthy of being investigated. She doesn't quite believe in ghosts – spirits and demons, certainly. But things that glow blue? Other than someone that's covered themselves in lyrium, she can't see anything like that happening.

The servant's entrance seems to invite her in. She takes a look around as she approaches it. No one notices her. If they do, they're too busy ignoring her. No one will say anything, she's confident.

With that thought in mind, she opens the door and slides into the servant's tunnel.

**-x-X-x-**

Darkness is what greets her first. Her eyes can't quite manage to adjust fast enough. She decides that there's not going to be any Templars running around – they're most likely too scared to venture near, if the random elf's words are true. Bethany holds out a hand and summons a ball of flame into it, watching as the corridor around her becomes bathed in a brilliant orange light.

It smells like chokedamp and she can hear dripping somewhere in the distance. It's not that surprising. How many nobles live in brilliant conditions, whilst their servants live in squalor? Even in the rich palaces, it seems that elves will still sleep on stone and eat nothing but gruel.

The Veil shifts around her. Bethany gasps and spins around, her free hand crackling with lightning. Nothing but darkness greets her.

She frowns, waits a moment longer and continues on, her nerves rattled. She can feel the Veil shifting – people have died here, violently. It fits the stories of the Vaels all being murdered. Bethany's on her guard, waiting for demons to appear and try to rip her to shreds.

Nothing appears, however, which makes her all the more nervous.

She walks into a room and guesses it must be the servant's living quarters. Cots are lined up against one wall, small tables and chairs against the other. Plates are still left out on the tables, the food still fresh. Bethany stares at it in confusion. As far as the rumours go, the massacre must have happened days ago – the food can't be as fresh as it looks. She pokes a piece of mutton and finds that although it's slightly overcooked, it's still apparently freshly cooked.

Her stomach rumbles, reminding her that all she's ate is stolen food. She picks up the mutton, breathes a spell over it that she's not aware she knew and finds that there's nothing strange about the meat. She knows that she should be unnerved at what she's finding, but her hunger overrides that. She devours the mutton, the cup of watered wine left with it and all the food she can find until she's fit to burst.

Only after she's finished the food does the haze clear and she sees that she's actually eaten half-rotting meat. The sight makes her vomit it all back up – seeing chunks of fur atop food she's eaten makes her want to throw up what little there is left in her stomach.

_Desire_, some distant part of her mind tells her. _Hunger_. Demon magic, she realises. She doesn't know where they are, but they're present in the mansion – her recent experience has taught her that. Her stomach rumbles, demanding food to fill it. She lifts a hand and forms a small block of ice. She pops it into her mouth, humming as she tries to ignore the way it makes her hungry for actual food.

The remains of food left on the table begin to look fresh and appetising again. She presses her hands into her eyes, groans and leaves the room as quickly as she can. Everywhere she walks, the rooms are abandoned, save for the stains of blood. Perhaps they're all that remains of the people who lived here. Perhaps they're the remains of Templars that came to investigate. Bethany isn't certain, but she wants to find out just what's going on.

She opens another door and finds herself in what must be a ballroom. It's large, circular and with a great set of winding steps that lead up to the floor above. She can see long tapestries that roll down from the ceiling, cloaking the room in a rich red colour. Pieces of fancy garb are left on the floor, stained with blood. It's as if their owners were torn to pieces. Judging by the chunks of flesh on the floor, it seems that they weren't able to run fast enough.

A soft groan catches Bethany's attention. Her heart thunders as if it's never beaten before. She races for the stairs, knowing in her gut that the sound came from there. She curses whoever built them as she races up the, ascending the twirling, spiralling cycle of never-ending stairs until finally she reaches the top.

And sat on the final step is an elf in spiky black armour.

His hair is shockingly white, yet his eyebrows as black as his armour. His skin is olive, as if he's constantly in the sun, and faint blue tattoos that are almost white line his skin. A bottle of wine is clutched in his hands, which he presses to his lips greedily.

Beside him are two bodies, both dead, both with holes where they should have hearts.

He coughs on the wine, as if he's just noticed Bethany. "A visitor," he says in a deep, rumbling voice. Bethany's not certain where his accent comes from, but she wants to be surrounded by it forever and always. "I'd thought that the demons had long since killed everyone in this place."

"It seems that way," Bethany says. She readies her magic, just in case this elf isn't quite what he appears to be. Although, given that he appears to be no more than a drunk with a strange sense of style, she supposes that he's most likely nothing like what he seems – and not in a good or even terrifying way. "What happened here?"

The elf shrugs and drains another amount of wine. "Demons," he says simply. "I thought they belonged to Danarius. Instead they belonged to another. _Mages_," he sneers, such contempt in his voice that Bethany's actually taken aback. "They're all the same. The power they're given isn't anywhere near enough. The people down there were slaughtered by demons," he says, nodding down the stairs, towards the _chunks_ that are all that remains of a few people. "These two were the mages in control. I killed them myself."

Bethany glances at them once more and then back to the elf. "And then you raided their wine cabinet, I presume?"

He barks a laugh. "Why not? Wouldn't want to let it go to waste. And what of you, stranger? Are you another demon, come here to try my patience? A vulture perhaps, keen to pick the bones of the recently dead? Or something entirely different?"

She shrugs. "I am who I am. I came here simply because what happened here sounded interesting – I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to help, if there was any way that I could."

"As you can see," the elf says, gesturing to the bodies beneath him, "I do not need any help. Unless you believe that I am simply a drunk. In which case, you would also believe that there were not demons here, and that I did not kill these mages by crushing their hearts with my fist."

"I believe that there were demons here," Bethany says. She can feel the way they paw at the Veil, seeking to climb across and possess the bodies of the dead. Sure, everyone says that demons like to possess the living, but they're not going to pass up any opportunity to reach Thedas. "I'm not entirely certain that I believe you punched your way through their hearts, though."

A deafening explosion hammers Bethany's ears. She shrieks as glass seems to shatter all around her. She slams her hands over her ears, yet finds that no glass covers her.

"I suppose now is your chance to find out for certain," the elf says.

The Veil has shattered, Bethany realises in an instant. The shadows around her seem to move. Bethany's heart stops and starts at an erratic pace. Every shadow seems to flicker, to move of its own accord. She doesn't know what to trust – where to look.

A brilliant blue glow erupts in the room. She glances at the elf to see that his tattoos are aflame; the move like liquid fire races beneath them. His hair seems to be pulled by an invisible wind, sweat sticks in tiny beads to his skin and his eyes seem to shine with an arousing fury.

Bethany tears her gaze away from him. A blue ghost – the rumours are true.

Her shadow sprouts glowing yellow eyes.

She shouts and falls back in alarm as the shadow slices at her. It hits nothing but air as she hits the floor, rolls and pulls herself back up again. The shadow flickers, yellow eyes glowing, narrowing on her. _Shades_, she recalls her father saying. Made of nothing but shadow; weak demons, but strong enough to kill.

The elf nearby might hate mages, but she's not going to let that make her lie down and die. Fire blossoms into her hands. She directs it against her former shadow with nothing but a thought. Her shadow bursts, fading into light with a howling shriek.

The elf _glares_ at her. It feels like he's stripping away her soul and scattering it to the different corners of Thedas. He says nothing. He holds a greatsword that seems to weigh as much as him – where he got it from, she doesn't know. He wields it like an expert. The blade sinks into a shadow and disperses it without hesitation.

Bethany sets the shadows aflame before they can come after her. The corpses of the mages begin to move. She tethers one with magic to the wall opposite and _pushes_ on the magic. The wall doesn't budge and instead draws the corpse towards it. The body hammers against the wall with such force that it shatters, bursting and leaking putrid organs everywhere.

The elf roars as he leaps at the other possessed mage corpse. They become arcane horrors, as far as Bethany can remember. She recalls the darkspawn that she fought before, when she went to Sundermount with her brothers. She misses them, but she can't go back and see them – not yet, anyhow. They need to think her dead, gone or worse. They'll hurt, they'll mend and then she can return. They may hate her, they may never forgive her, but they'll understand that they can live without devoting themselves to protecting her and her alone.

The elf hisses as he sinks his sword into the arcane horror's chest. The thing screams, lightning crackling between its long, unhumane fingers. As Bethany readies a spell to rip it to shreds, the elf shouts and the world around him explodes in a bright blue light.

Bethany has to blink stars from her eyes. She finds that once she can see again, the elf is leant over the dead thing, his sword leaning against the ground as he pants, sweat dripping from his hair.

The room is silent around them. Finally Bethany breaks it, saying, "So . . . I guess I believe that you punched your fist through their hearts now."

He doesn't laugh. Instead he glowers at her like she wears the face of a demon. "I know what you are, _mage_. Don't think you can try and hide that from me."

She doesn't know whether to cry, scream or pull her hair in frustration. Is _nowhere_ safe from the hatred of mages? She's just saved his life, and his gratitude comes in the form of glares and accusations.

"Well next time I'll simply leave you to get killed," she says snappily. "After all, if you expect me not to use my magic when something's trying to kill me, then don't expect me to use it to save _you_ either."

His eyes narrow on her. "I didn't ask for your help, _mage_."

"And you won't get it again," she huffs. "I got the answers I wanted here. You should know that people are talking about you; the glowing blue elf that murdered the Vaels. They're going to be hunting for you soon."

He sighs. It's a weary sound, like he's far older than he should be. "I didn't kill the Vaels, or whoever these pompous nobles were. I simply killed the mages and the demons that rode in here. If they want to hunt me down, they are free to do so. I will not, however, simply roll over and let them kill me."

"I don't care either way," Bethany snaps, "I'm simply warning you, because I thought that someone who kills demons rather than running away from them might be worth keeping alive! Good luck, whoever you are. I _really_ hope we do not cross paths again, because your ability to thank people for their help _sucks_."

She spins and begins to descend the stairs to leave. The elf's sigh is just as intriguing as his voice. "Wait," he says, harshly but with an undercurrent of vulnerability. Bethany stops and watches as he tries to approach her, looking uncertain as he does so.

He bows his head, pulls it back up again and sighs once more. "If I came across as rude, I apologise. I am thankful for the help, I truly am. Although in my experience, a mage does not do anything without wanting something in return. What is it you want, mage?"

She rolls her eyes. "The world to bow down at my fingertips and give me power equal to the Maker. _Honestly_!" she scoffs and throws her hands in the air. She doesn't even care that the elf tenses like he's expecting an attack. "Can't I do anything without someone thinking that I want to possess them or turn them into my slave? You think I don't know the dangers my magic possesses? I've tried every day since I found out I was a mage to find a way to rid myself of it. Nothing works. I have to endure this shitty life because the Maker has a dour sense of humour. My brothers can't live their own lives because they're too afraid Templars are going to come and take me away. I'm doubly afraid of the Templars, because if they do take me, my brothers will kill themselves trying to free me. So what I _want_, you stuck up little man, is for a chance to live a normal life, to not have any magic in my blood and for my family to realise that protecting me isn't worth them not having a life of their own."

The elf grunts. "Bold words, for a mage."

The tapestry around him catches fire. "I explained myself to you," Bethany says, as if she doesn't realise the flames licking around them both. "What do _you_ want?"

He looks quickly between the flames and her, his face tight. "I want Danarius dead."

"And who's he?"

He grimaces. "My former master."

The flames die at once. "A slaver?"

He nods. "A Tevinter blood mage."

Bethany swears. "There was a group of them in Kirkwall, using my family's home as a base to move people around. They offered me a place with them, promising me power beyond what I could ever believe."

The elf tenses, beginning to glow blue once more. "And like every mage, you accepted, didn't you?"

"Actually, I burnt them all to death."

The blue flickers and dies. "Oh," he says. Finally he straightens. "Perhaps I have been too standoffish with you. You caught me at a bad time – I suppose that I owe you a debt, as you helped me here and warned me of the mercenaries."

"I suppose you do," Bethany says, folding her arms. "Don't tell the Templars I'm a mage and we'll call it even." She gives him a cold look and turns to leave once more.

"What's your name, mage?" the elf calls after her.

"Bethany," she says. "Bethany Hawke. What's yours?"

He frowns. "I am . . . uncertain. Danarius gave me the name Fenris."

"And is that the name you wish to be known by?"

He looks honestly surprised. "I'm not entirely certain. It's the only name I know – I don't really have much a choice, do I?"

Bethany smiles a sad smile. "Do any of us?"

**-x-X-x-**

It's still daylight outside when Bethany re-emerges from the servant's tunnel. She pretends that she's simply lost her way as she walks back into Starkhaven's main town square and finds that everyone seems to have been brought to a standstill by something.

A crowd of people gather by the side of the street, staring down towards the gates into the city. Silently Bethany is impressed at how they manage to keep the street clear and line up against an invisible barrier. She imagines such a thing happening in Kirkwall and realises that it would descend into nothing but chaos and brawls within a moment.

The sound of horse hooves clipping against the stone begin to echo around her. The people seem torn between trying to cheer and express sympathy at the same time. The men have their hats pressed against their chests, whilst the women simply press their hands to their hearts. Bethany copies them, hoping to blend in. A little part of her mind tells her that she's free now – she shouldn't have to blend in. She ignores it. Anonymity is still her friend. Perhaps if she were in Tevinter, being known would work in her favour. It would also bring her people trying to kill her, but that wasn't exactly anything new. At least in Tevinter it would be mages, rather than Templars and their strange anti-magics.

The horse rides into her view, moving slowly. It's a brilliant white creature; so noble and majestic that she actually feels like nothing compared to it. If people worshipped animals, she can honestly see them bowing down to this creature.

Atop it is a man with his face etched in pain and grief. His armour seems to be as white as the stallion beneath him, though he covers it all in a black mourning gown. Though his hair isn't exactly thick and seems to be receding a little, what remains is a brilliant red that reminds her of Aveline. He looks down at them briefly and _Maker_, what amazing blue eyes he has. Bethany actually feels her heart stop for a moment. He says nothing, only grunting a little as his horse steps out of line, but she hears the traces of Starkhaven accent in his voice.

She wouldn't have thought that she was one for a pretty accent. Though she supposes that after growing up in Fereldan, where everyone sounded similar, then moving to Kirkwall where it was nothing but pretend-Orlesians or common thugs, the suave accents are something to behold.

A man on a muscular brown horse rides up to him. Where the first man is regal and composed, this one seems more like a soldier trying to blend into the role. He must be a soldier promoted to a personal bodyguard and assistant. His hair is much thicker, seemingly becoming one with the wispy brown beard on his face. He leans across to the other man and though his voice is but a whisper, Bethany hears him mention the words _'Prince Vael.'_

So this is the man that the elf's demons murdered? Bethany feels a shared bond between them. Parents slaughtered by unholy creatures that shouldn't have been allowed to exist in the first place. Worse still that he should happen to return home, only to find the remains of his family and their friends strewn across his house.

All at once, Bethany remembers Fenris. Whilst she may not be too fond of him, she tells herself that she can't leave him to face these men alone. Someone will end up dead and whilst she wouldn't honestly care who died, she knows she can at least prevent them from happening.

With that thought in mind, she sneaks back off to the servant's entrance of the Vael mansion.

**-x-X-x-**

"All these lives, so cruelly cut short…"

Bethany hides behind a pair of long purple drapes that flow down from the ceiling far above her to cover the windows that seem to be as large as the house itself. She flicks them to the side a little and strains her head to see everything.

The floor below holds the prince and his manservant. The prince is crouched in front of the body of a woman, dead and flat on her back, the fabric of her bodice dangerously close to ripping.

"Why would the Maker allow such things to happen?" the prince asks no one in particular.

"Sebastian," the manservant says, touching his shoulder. Perhaps not a servant at all then, Bethany decides. No servant would call their master by their name or even touch them without permission. Perhaps an old friend? "You shouldn't put yourself through this. Let your men come through here and give them to the pyre."

"_No!"_ Sebastian snarls, shoving the man away. "These are _my_ family and if anyone will commit them to the pyre, it will be me!"

The other man says nothing. Finally he bows his head. "Very well. I'll have the servants prepare the pyre."

"Thank you," Sebastian says, cradling the body of the dead woman. He closes his eyes as the man walks away, hugging the woman to his chest. Bethany wonders who she could be, for him to cradle her so. A mistress? A sister? She seems too young to be his mother.

"Cousin…" he whispers.

Well, that's certainly something. Bethany can't exactly speak from experience, but she wonders if such distant relatives could ever be as close as this man seems to be. She remembers her own cousin, left back in Kirkwall. Charade seems like such a nice woman, Bethany feels guilty for leaving her in the way that she did. But if she's strong enough to journey to Kirkwall and take on slavers to reclaim their family's house, Bethany decides that she's tough enough to handle her newly-found cousin vanishing.

She doesn't know why she does it, but she moves from her cover of the drapes. She reaches the wooden railings that frame the entire first floor viewing gallery and leans over them. "They died because of demons," she says.

The man gasps loudly, drops the dead woman's body and falls backwards over himself. His face is a perfect picture of alarm before he finds her, then it rapidly becomes crossed in anger and suspicion. "Who are you?" he growls.

She shrugs, noting the bow on his back. A tiny voice in her mind tells her that though he can move to attack her, but she'll fry his brain before he moves. "No one," she says. "Just someone who saw the mages that ripped unleashed the horrors on this place." She nods towards the top of the stairs, where she and Fenris had killed them not even an hour ago. "They're dead. Turned into arcane horrors and then they had to be killed again."

The distrust doesn't leave Sebastian's face, but she notices the way he doesn't seem to move for his bow. "And how do you know this?"

"I killed the mages responsible."

His eyes widen a fraction. "And why would you do that?"

"Perhaps it's the will of the Maker," she suggests. "I find myself here, in a land I don't know, with people I know even less. The first thing I came across was this slaughter, complete with demons and the mages responsible."

"The Maker does move in mysterious ways," the prince agrees, "but why would He send you? Why would you stay?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I have nowhere else to go. Perhaps He feels I'm the most qualified for the job?" She laughs a little to herself. "I don't know His reasons or His motives." She senses people approaching, their intents hostile. "I thought that you should know the truth about their deaths. When family dies, it's hard enough. But not knowing how or why they died . . . sometimes that's so much harder, even if the truth is terrible."

Sebastian raises a hand, palm upwards. Bethany feels like all the hostility grinds to a halt immediately. She senses archers nearby, ready to shoot arrows through the windows around her. How do they even know when he's in danger, she wonders.

"And the rumours of the blue ghost?"

"An elf," she says. She holds no allegiances to Fenris. If Sebastian knows he was – and possibly still is – here, he may hunt him down. Even if people begin to believe that all of the horrors here were committed by mages, Bethany feels that the truth needs to come out. It's the only way Thedas can be fair – despite Anders' arguments that the crimes of mages need covering up, simply so people will love them.

"He destroyed most of the demons before I arrived here," she says. "He claims he didn't kill your relatives and your friends. For what it's worth, I believe him."

"Very well," Sebastian says. "You have my thanks, for everything you have told me, should it be true. For what it's worth . . . I believe you."

She smiles, just a little.

"Might I know the name of the woman who speaks truths and wears nothing but beauty, even when she frowns?"

Bethany tries to hide her blush behind a smirk. She fails considerably. She clears her throat and tries her best to remain cool. "I'll make you a deal, Prince Sebastian," she says. "If you allow me to walk out of here alive, I will meet you in two days' time." She adjusts the hem of her dress, thinking to conversations she's heard in passing. "Meet me at the Slow Death at noon."

Sebastian's eyes seem to fall out of his head. "M-my lady," he whispers. "You do realise that is the brothel?"

She smiles. A brothel means that even if he brings his men, they'll become distracted. "I'm aware," she says. "Meet me there and I will tell you everything you want to know. Try to kill me now and things will not end well for anyone."

He seems to take a long time considering it. She pulls at the Veil delicately, readying it for her assault. Finally he nods, bowing his head slightly. "As you wish." He holds up a hand. "Men, stand down. Allow her to leave."

"My thanks."

He nods to her. "No, my thanks. In two days, then."

"In two days," she says, turning and leaving. A flicker of white hair ducks back behind a window in the floor above. _Good_, she tells herself. _Let him watch_. Perhaps he'll understand that not all mages are simply demons waiting to strike.

She doesn't spare a glance towards the mansion as she leaves the way she came in. She's fully aware that it's a dangerous game she's playing. But now she doesn't have two brothers watching her every move, who says she can't have a little fun?


	9. And Life Continues

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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__Chapter Nine; And Life Continues__

**-x-X-x-**

"_If growing up a noble taught me anything, it's that they are the worst sort of liars. They spend their childhood being taught that such things are normal – that they're expected of them. A beggar may place a knife at your front, but most nobles will always have one at your back, whether you notice it or not."_

Oh, how Mother's words run rampant in her head as of late. She swallows nervously. She's always had one of her brothers around in Kirkwall to help her deal with anyone and anything. Now she's on her own, all her mistakes are left only to her to resolve. If something goes wrong, she only has her own two hands to dig her way out of the mess.

The Slow Death reminds Bethany of the Pearl, from the few times she had visited there to pick up Carver after one too many drinks and a suggestion gone wrong to one of the working girls.

She sits by herself at one of the tables, scanning the crowd and yet paying no attention to anyone in particular. Where the Pearl is wide, expansive and full of space, the Slow Death is a much more . . . _intimate_ place. The walls are painted a thick, rich red. Booths line the far wall, in which curtains are hanging, ready to be drawn down, should the need arise. The middle of the room is filled with chairs, tables and benches, all placed so that they're offering a perfect view of the stage.

A single light falls on the stage from a torch box above. Thick red curtains shield the back, yet manage to illuminate even further the stage's only decoration - a single, thick, metal pole.

The glass of wine she has is slowly beginning to drain. She fidgets nervously in her chair. The dark blue of her dress makes her feel like she's wearing liquid sapphires in the dim lights of the brothel. She has a woman named Grace to thank for it. She found her yesterday, cowering in the corners of an alleyway as Templars ran down the streets, screaming for blood. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Grace was the woman they were hunting.

So Bethany had set fire to a woman's dress three streets over. The Templars had gone running and Grace had thanked Bethany relentlessly, even going so far as to donate to her all the coin she had on her person. Bethany knew that given the different languages and designs, all her coin was taken from another's pocket, but she wasn't about to ignore the promise of free money.

Grace had been captured this morning, Bethany had heard. The woman tried breaking _into_ the Circle to rescue her lover. Bethany shrugs to herself and has another sip of her wine. If Anders were here now, he would fill her ears with grief about how she should have done more. Her brothers would just be happy that she was alive - though Carver would most likely berate her for using magic so close to Templars.

But she's not her brothers. Bethany is her own person, she tells herself. If she's able to use magic to take herself away from everyone, she can make decisions for herself.

"My lady."

She looks up at the voice. Sebastian stands before her table, his face flush and everything about him so incredibly awkward. It's all Bethany can do to maintain an impassive face. Nice to know that someone else feels as awkward here as she does. He still wears his bright white armour - the candles reflect on it in a way that Bethany can't help but find a little distracting.

"Prince Vael," Bethany says. "Please, take a seat. I don't really wish to drink on my own."

"My Lady," Sebastian says once more. "A woman as . . . _refined_ as yourself should not be here."

She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "There are many places I have been that are worse than this, my Prince. Perhaps you have heard of Kirkwall? I happened to have lived there, not too long ago. Amidst the beggars, the whores and the thieves was where I hung my head. Some of the truest people I know I found in such a place." She gestures to the room. "Here, everyone is brought down to a basic need. There are no pretences, no judgement. People come here to pay for sex. Everyone knows it. Workers or clients - each are as bad as each other, one could argue. If I was refined, perhaps this would be an ideal place for me to be - for who would be able to spread gossip about me being here without revealing that they frequent such a location too?"

His forehead breaks with a frown. "You make a good point, my Lady," he says as he takes a seat. "Now that we are here, perhaps I might know your name?"

"Bethany," she says, her heart racing just a bit. Her brother is usually the one to have conversations like this. Garrett is the one with the golden tongue and the disarmingly charming smiles. She swallows. Her mouth is annoyingly dry. "And you're Sebastian Vael," she says, attempting to remain calm. "I would ask if you came alone . . . but given where we currently are, that question seems to have another meaning."

He flushes just a bit more. "I," he stutters. "I did not bring my men with me. You asked that I arrive here alone and so that is what I did." He glances around, his frown deepening as people do their best to avoid looking at them both. "Has my lady extended the same courtesy to me?"

_How to play this_, Bethany wonders. Reveal too much and the Templars will come hunting for her again. She needs allies in this city - where better to start with one of the royalty? Ghostly blue elves with a hatred for mages and a Circle escapee aren't exactly the best choices for allies.

"I am alone," she says. "Though that does not mean I am defenceless."

"I had expected as much," he says, folding his hands together on the table. "After all, you claim to have killed the demons that invaded my home. Demons whose bodies that I had to dispose of, I might add."

Bethany shrugs a little. "I merely helped where I could. If I had destroyed the bodies, would you have believed me?"

"Perhaps not," he concedes. He runs a hand through his thinning hair and sighs. "My lady. Bethany. We find ourselves at an impasse here. We both have information we wish to share, yet neither of us trusts the other. I am a brother of the Chantry, though that may be hard to believe. Believe me when I promise you that I will not seek you out to do you harm tonight or any other for any information you share."

"So I must trust you that I can trust you?"

"If you wish to put it so bluntly, then yes. It would seem that is the best way."

She sighs. "Very well," she says. She can feel his _rage_ at the people who have killed his family. His _desire_ to see them avenged. His _hunger_ for retribution. The feelings swim in her head and make her feel just the slightest bit drunk.

Sebastian seems to notice. "Would you like a drink, my lady? Or would you rather have water?"

Bethany nearly snorts. Even she knows that no one drinks water in a place such as this. "A drink would be welcome," she says quickly. "Wine would be nice, though I can drink ale or cider as easily." She nods as Sebastian signals a waitress over and places their drinks. Only when she leaves does Bethany lean forwards and say what's on her mind. "You ask me to place a lot of trust in a person that may still hold me to blame for the deaths of his family."

"Aye," Sebastian says gravely. "Though look around. Everyone in here places a significant sense of trust in one another. The acts they seek to indulge in - stripping themselves of all clothes and becoming intimately familiar with one another . . . this place lives on the fact that no one's trust shall be explicitly compromised within its walls."

Bethany fights the urge to blush. The thought of the acts he's describing, coupled with his voice . . . she shudders the thoughts away and banishes them before they can take up residence in her mind.

"I suppose you're right," she concedes. "Very well. I will trust you and tell you nothing but the truth whilst we're here. In return, I expect the same from you."

"I can agree to those terms."

Bethany nods as a waitress passes a glass of wine to her. Her gaze lingers for a long moment, on Sebastian and Bethany both. She blushes under the scrutiny but otherwise ignores it. Meanwhile Sebastian looks somewhat uncomfortable.

"So, my Prince," Bethany says as she sips at her wine, "what questions do you have for me?"

"The people . . . the demons they became. How many of them were blood mages? Were they all innocently slaughtered, or were they victims of their own greed?"

She shrugs. "I cannot say. The two arcane horrors were likely behind everything. When a mage dies . . . their body can still be inhabited and twisted by demons." One of the reasons why Fereldans burn their dead, she thinks to herself. "If one possesses the body of a mage, they can still access the Veil and use the mage's talents. I would assume that in life, they were the culprits behind everything."

"What brings you to Starkhaven then, my lady? Whilst I appreciate the fact that you came here and saved me the . . . _horror_ of having to fight my own relatives like that, I cannot help but think you must have ulterior motives."

She shrugs. She hadn't had much a plan when she left Kirkwall and even now she finds that she's still grasping at straws for ideas of what to do. "I wanted to escape," she says. "Kirkwall is a horrible place. Everyone without coin is treated as less than nothing. Though I made friends there, I was always looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to attack me." _Waiting for the Templars to come and drag me away_.

"Unfortunately, I know what you mean," Sebastian says. "I too have been to Kirkwall, though I have always been blessed enough that I can lay my head in the Chantry. I have seen the state of people there - the way the rich ignore the poor and the horrors of Darktown. I cannot blame one as fair as you for wanting to leave there."

"Well . . ." Bethany says uncomfortably. Somehow the conversation's become all about her. She clears her throat and tries her best to steer it in a new direction. "Do you know who was behind it? The demons, I mean."

"Perhaps," he says lowly. "If what you said is true, then the two mages turn out to be related to Lady Harimann - one of my family's oldest allies. I cannot fathom why they would turn on us like that." He sighs. "They are from Kirkwall. If it is them behind this, then I will need to travel there to see if it is true - if they are truly behind all of this."

"And if they are?"

"Then they will be brought to the Maker's justice."

"Then I suppose that your need for me is done," Bethany says. She feels her hands clench into fists beneath the table. In a moment, he'll reveal his true colours, her mind says. He'll order her attack, believing her to be a part of the massacre of her family.

Instead he bows his head, takes her hand and kisses it gently. "I suppose we are. Though, if it would not be too much to ask, my lady, I would request that you travel to Kirkwall with me."

She can't stop the blush as it comes. "Kirkwall? Why?"

He smiles at her, all bright white teeth. "Why? Because you helped to avenge my family. Obviously you are strong and capable enough to handle yourself. I know that you may have sought to escape Kirkwall, but could I possibly convince you to journey back there? You have already done so much for me, I know. The Vaels are already in your debt. I cannot offer you anything more than what you already deserve - the full support of my family. However, perhaps my gratitude would be enough?"

The way her heart flutters at his smile almost makes her want to breathe _yes_ before her mind can say otherwise. Instead she swallows and places a shaky smile on her face. "I do not doubt that helping you is the right thing to do," she says diplomatically. "But given that I've just left Kirkwall, I am sure you can understand why I would be hesitant to journey back there." _Why I can't face either of my brothers._

"Very well," he says, withdrawing from the table. "My men and I leave at dawn in three days' time. You already know where my castle is. I shall look for you as we leave. If you are there, you are welcome to travel with me. If not, then I shall mourn the loss of a beautiful face and interesting conversation on the journey to Kirkwall."

Thankfully he withdraws before she can make a fool out of herself. She smiles as he leaves her, extending her grip on the Veil and searching for any hostilities. She doesn't sense anything other than what she'd expect to find in a brothel anyway and nothing seems to be directed at her. Even so, she remains in her seat, slowly sipping at her glass of wine.

The spike of _rage_ she senses is enough to make her nearly drop her glass in shock. She recovers and manages to maintain an expressionless face as the elf sits down across her without preamble.

"You risk much, meeting someone in a place such as this," he says.

Rage washes off him in waves. It's almost enough to make Bethany choke. She takes a breath and fights past the sickly swell in her lump she feels beginning to set in.

"Maybe," she says, "though he deserves to know the truth of how his family died. With knowledge, there may be some peace. Otherwise he'd be forever wondering and searching for answers he might not have found."

Fenris regards her with a look that shows how little he believes her. "If you say so," he says. "Though I think you will forgive me for not trusting one of _your_ kind. For all I know you may be attempting to convert him to your will and snare him in your own traps."

"_Maker!"_ Bethany hisses through clenched teeth. "What did I do to deserve your ire now? I didn't speak to you, nor have I done so since I helped you in the mansion. The conversations I have with people that aren't you don't concern you - though if it makes you feel any better, _no_, I didn't attempt to control him. He's his own man, much like anyone else. I simply thought that he might want some closure. This isn't Tevinter - not everyone here seeks to gain power where they can get it. Maybe you should think on that before you walk around judging people!"

The words are hot and acidic - they burn her even as they leave her mouth. Once voiced, she winces at the echo of them in the silence that passes.

"I have yet to see anything that says otherwise," Fenris hisses. "Though for what it is worth, you seem stronger than other mages I have encountered. Perhaps you are above them, or perhaps you will only fall harder. We may not be in Tevinter, but any mage is dangerous." He watches her for a long time, his eyes burning with emerald fire. "Are you travelling with him then? Journeying to Kirkwall?"

A cold feeling of panic washes through her. "What if I am?" she growls. _How much did he hear? How much did everyone hear?_ She's thankful that the M word hasn't been mentioned - though her conversation with Fenris has already dropped heavy hints. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

"Do you trust him?"

"Again; I don't see how it's any of your concern."

Fenris curses. "When you helped me fight those demons, you saved my life. Like it or not, I am in your debt and owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Fenris. Though if you did, I would say it would be a little gratitude and less offensive comments."

"Bah!" Fenris spits. "You say I owe you nothing, yet how can I continue to breathe knowing that every breath I take is because someone like you saved me? Until we are equal I must live with the knowledge that my continued existence is all because of a _mage."_

As Bethany had feared, the club goes quiet at that exact moment. A stripper on stage stops and looks at them as everyone else follows his gaze. Finally the stripper laughs. "Darling, _I'm_ a mage!" he declares as he pulls off what little clothing he has. Free to the world as he is, Bethany can't stop the way her eyes widen. "Nothing this big can be described as anything but magical!" he declares before turning around and grinding against the pole suggestively.

Everyone loses interest in Bethany and Fenris as the stripper continues his act to the sounds of catcalls and whistles. Bethany's drawn into the act for a moment before spinning back in her seat and settling Fenris with a scowl.

"You make your hatred for what I am perfectly obvious," Bethany hisses. "Whatever I decide to do is none of your business, no matter how much you argue otherwise. Leave me, Fenris. Live your life as you wish to and allow me to live mine as I wish to. Good luck with your continued escape from your Tevinter blood mage - you should probably start running now, lest he has minions here in this club, waiting to report you."

Fenris growls something Bethany cannot understand as he gets up to leave. She sighs and reclines against her chair, enjoying the relative peace as it washes through her. The sounds of catcalls are dying down now - she assumes that the stripper is finished with his act.

A flash of _desire_ gets her attention before the person's presence does. She opens her eyes to find the stripper stood in front of her, covered in sweat and oil, naked to the world. He's an elf; she doesn't know how she didn't notice it before, with his short brown hair exposing his pointed ears to the world.

Though what gets her attention certainly isn't anything on that side of his body.

"I saw you looking darling," the elf says. He takes her glass and doesn't even introduce himself before he sits on her lap. "I thought you might want a private show. Sweet thing like you? I bet you know all sorts of things that would make a man moan."

He takes her hand and places it against his chest. She feels heat flood through her and the slightest bit of warmth pooling elsewhere. He spreads his legs across her, grinding his hips against her and pressing himself into her chest. "I can show you a thing or two about being a mage," he says, winking as sparks dance between his fingers. "There's a few tricks I reserve only for special customers."

She goes to speak, finds her mouth dry. He smiles at her and guides her hand lower, across his hairless stomach, lets her drift her fingers over the muscles there and then guides her to where he's waiting, pressed up against her.

He moans as he closes her hand around himself. "The name's Serendipity," he breathes against her ear. "Do you think there's a stroke of serendipity in your near future?"

He bites her ear. She can't stop the moan that comes out of her mouth. Her heart is racing beneath her breast. Her arms are beginning to shake. So much being offered - more than she ever would have thought. She's never . . . but does that matter? If she waits longer, what if her first breaks her heart? She'll never be a maiden married off to a virtuous noble.

He grinds against her, still in her hand. His moan echoes against her neck. _When did it get so hot in here_? she wonders, just before he presses his lips against hers and she finds that the time for thoughts is over.

**-x-X-x-**

Two weeks.

Two weeks since his little sister vanished off the face of Thedas and Hawke still has no idea where she is, what she happens to be doing and if she's even still alive anymore.

He feels hollow. He feels like something has crawled up inside him, ripped out his heart and not bothered to replace the insides with anything. All that remains is a gaping black hole.

Shepard whines and paws at his leg. Hawke grunts and tosses him what little food he has on his plate. He doesn't feel much like eating anyhow. He rarely does these days. It's only when one of the others sits him down and waits until he's cleaned his plate that he actually bothers eating. They take it in turns now. One day it's Anders. Then it's Merrill. Then Aveline. Then Varric. Isabela fills his life with sex and dirty jokes when she's in the mood to be around him.

That mood is getting less and less frequent these days too. She spends her time and her coin in the Blooming Rose and Hawke can't quite blame her.

His anger has faded away. His grief has faded. He feels worse now than he ever did when Mother had died. Bethany was – _is_ – his baby sister. He's the one that's meant to protect her.

Instead he trusted that task to Carver.

_Carver_.

Even now Hawke's fist curls around his tankard. The metal rebels against his grip. He shouldn't hate his brother. He should grieve with him, forgive him and understand that Carver's selfishness and need to prove himself made him blind to Bethany and whatever happened to her. She wasn't kidnapped. She wasn't murdered. She left of her own free will.

Yet, he can't stop hating his little brother. Each time he sees his face, he wants to knock it in once more. They fight now, worse than ever. Carver somehow thinks that Hawke's all to blame. _If you weren't so busy fucking that whore of yours, we wouldn't have ended up in this mess!_

_Oh, the great Hawke would never have let anything like this happen! Woe to Thedas that we're not all like him!_

_Think yourself Andraste reborn, do you, Brother? You couldn't even save Mother when you needed to!_

The tankard crumples in his grip. Ale spills out over the side. Shepard whines again, stands up and places his head into Hawke's lap. Hawke wants to smile and scratch him behind the ears. Instead he simply sits there and stares into the too-intelligent eyes that look back at him.

What is he supposed to do? He invests all his time helping the people of Kirkwall, gathering money for an expedition that grows increasingly unlikely as time passes. The Blight has ended. The darkspawn are crawling back to the Deep Roads and yet, the expedition is still apparently going ahead.

Hawke's lips curl in distaste. Maybe he should send Carver down to the Deep Roads. Naturally he'll probably screw things up there too, but with any luck he'll catch Blight and have to be put out of his misery.

The thought shocks Hawke into some measure of clear headedness. He doesn't want his little brother dead. He's all he has left these days – save a mabari, a guard who acts like a mother hen and a dwarf that's his best friend one day and using him as the latest muse the next.

He sighs and is just about to stand up and leave when someone sits down opposite him. He didn't even notice them come in. He wonders if he is in fact, a little drunker than he thought when he looks up and sees Merrill's large eyes staring at him. _No wonder_, he thinks. Clumsy, daft and hazard to all things as she is, Merrill manages to walk as quietly as a shadow most days. He would think that she had trained in thieving, was she not so innocent. Instead he supposes it's a lifetime of hunting game in the forests, where every step may have led them into being attacked by a bear – or worse.

Darkspawn were near her old camp. She mentioned that once, didn't she? It was something she had said to try and console him. She'd ventured into old ruins with two of her closest – her _only _– friends. One had died. The other had been tainted and unable to be treated, had become a ghoul.

He shakes his head. Such thoughts aren't going to help his mental state.

Merrill's still looking up at him, wide eyes and all. "Merrill," he says as politely as he can. "I'm surprised you managed to find your way here."

"Oh," she says, blushing slightly. "I _did_ set out a while ago, but then I found myself dreadfully lost. I tried carving signs into the walls like we do when we're hunting in caves, but then the owner of one house came out and chased me off with a broom. I ran so far and so quickly that I'm afraid I got a little lost again and if it wasn't for Isabela, I probably still would be."

Hawke frowns at the mention of Isabela. He looks to the bar and sees her there. He feels himself stir at the sight of her, ass just so slightly displaced, her breasts nearly bursting out of her top and her long, muscular legs hidden beneath boots that somehow make them look all the longer.

Of course, she also happens to be flirting rather excessively with some woman at the bar. She seems to be Coterie – all muscle, thick, boiled leather armour and a large sword strapped to her hip. Yet her face is attractive, in a hard sort of way.

Hawke gets the image of Isabela and her rolling around in the sack and finds that he can't quite concentrate again.

"I thought that you and Isabela were . . . _seeing _each other," Merrill whispers, following his gaze.

Hawke shrugs and drinks a little more ale. Shepard looks at him disapprovingly. "Isabela and I are friends," he says. "We both like sex. We have it occasionally. It's not much different than paying for it."

"Well, I suppose it is," Merrill says, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears. It's rather endearing. Hawke wants to hug her, but a little part of his mind warns him off. Carver already hates him. If he even saw him talking to Merrill, he'd likely blow a fuse and start a fight in the middle of the bar.

"I mean, you're both friends, aren't you?" Merrill continues. "So I mean, it's not going to be like paying for it, where I imagine that you just part ways afterwards and pretend it never happened. Don't you just lie there and . . . _talk_? About anything? Or everything? Surely it can't all just be . . . _intimate_, right?"

Hawke considers it. "No, it pretty much is just sex." They do talk about things before and after, sure. But mostly it's just about what to do next, or the sea or simple, meaningless things that both of them know are ways to get around having to talk about anything serious. "We work better that way. Isabela doesn't want feelings brought into anything and I don't want to have anything serious until my family are safe."

_Even Carver_ he thinks.

"Oh," Merrill whispers. She seems upset. Varric's been mentioning about how she seems to think Isabela and him are the perfect couple and are going to sail away into the sunset and have dozens of children that can charm you out of coin as quickly as they can steal it. He tries not to laugh at the thought. With all the magic in his bloodline, having children isn't exactly something Hawke's considered. More than that, he can't quite ever imagine Isabela being pregnant. If she ever was, he wouldn't put it past her to be swollen like a balloon and still dancing her deadly duel of death, as she likes to call it.

"So, did you come here for anything else Merrill?" Shepard's starting to fall asleep in his lap. It's going to be hell to wake him when Hawke needs to piss. "Surely it wasn't just to sit here and talk about Isabela and I?"

"Well, no . . ." Merrill admits. "I had a thought. You probably won't agree with it and I know that Anders and Aveline would frown at me and yell at me constantly, but I want to help and this happens to be the only way that I know how!"

Hawke feels that he is entirely too drunk to deal with Merrill's nervous ramblings. He waves for another round of drinks to be brought to his table. Everyone in the Hanged Man knows him by name now. It's the sort of thing that Mother would have been appalled about, yet something that would have made Father laugh until Mother glared him into silence.

"Merrill," Hawke says gently. "Take a breath. Tell me what you thought."

"Okay," she says nervously. A barmaid brings over two mugs of ale. Hawke shrugs when he doesn't recognise her, thanks her and tells her to put it on his tab. He'll get around to paying it off one day. Likely when the Deep Roads fall through and they have to move on from Kirkwall. Merrill sips at her ale gingerly. She's used to ciders and wines, she's mentioned. Anything sweet, though it seems she can handle her ale better than he would have thought.

"So you and Carver, you're brothers, right?" Merrill beings, rambling almost instantly. "So you share blood. That means that you and Bethany will do too. And I know that Varric hasn't had any luck trying to find her and neither has Isabela or Anders or Aveline. You haven't either, which is why you haven't rushed off to try and save her."

Hawke grunts. "The point, Merrill?"

"Oh, right! Sorry! What I was thinking was that since you and Carver and Bethany all share blood and I . . ." She leans across the table and lowers her voice, "can do blood magic, maybe I could use that to find her?"

It's a brilliantly stupid idea. Hawke doesn't know whether to kiss her or slap her for having it. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and prays to the Maker that something will give him the strength to deal with the reaction he knows he's going to get.

"Thank you, Merrill," he says. "But I can't let you do that. It's a wonderful idea, but Bethany would hate you and I both if I let you do that."

"But . . ." Merrill whispers, heartbreak written across her face. "I thought this would help you! And I've researched it and everything and I know the best way I can do this without hurting anyone! Other than me of course, but that's the price I have to pay for this sort of thing."

"Merrill," Hawke says, reaching across the table to touch her hand. The shock of it stuns her into silence. "Listen to me. I appreciate what you're offering. In any other situation, I would accept. But I still think Bethany's alive. If she is and we found her by doing that, she might run away again. She fears that sort of magic, Merrill. She'd love you for doing that to help me, but she'd hate me for forcing you to do it."

"But you're not forcing me to do anything," Merrill says.

"I know. But Bethany wouldn't see it that way." He frowns at her. "Carver said as much, didn't he?"

She looks up, her eyes widening. "I-I . . . yes. He told me that Bethany would never forgive him if he let me find her like that. I just don't understand! How can you want to find her so much and yet reject the best option of finding her you have?"

"Because, Merrill," he says gently, "it's not what _she_ would want. Think about it; if you could have Tamlen back, would you want to find him by using something that you knew would make him hate you forever, or search for a way to find him and keep him by your side?"

"I suppose you're right," Merrill says. "But I had those thoughts when Tamlen disappeared! I had them ever since then up until we moved to Kirkwall. I thought about it again and again until one day, this seemed like the only way I could ever hope of finding him again. I know he's dead, Hawke. The Warden sent a letter to one of the Dalish clans in Ferelden. He said they'd fought a Dalish ghoul who could still remember something of his past life. He sent the locket they'd found on his body with the letter.

"It was Tamlen's," she whispers. "We all went through _vallaslin _together. Tamlen, Mahariel and I. It was one of the only times something like that had happened in our clan. We had lockets made – a drop of each of our blood, diluted with ink. Not enough to ever be used for blood magic, yet enough to say that we were linked forever.

"It was Tamlen's locket the Warden sent back," she says. "On each we carved the _vallaslin_ we received. That way we could tell our lockets apart. We were linked, but still individual." She reaches under her collar and withdraws three simple silver lockets, each on a silver chain. They're no bigger than Hawke's thumb, but are undeniably beautiful. "I'm the only one left now," she admits. "Even though our lockets all bonded us together, it still wasn't enough in the end. All I have left of them are these flimsy pieces of silver with a drop of blood." She looks up at him, her eyes wet and red. "Don't follow my mistake, Hawke. You may think it better for Bethany to be dead than alive and hating you, but I would give _everything_ to bring Tamlen and Mahariel back, even if they hated me for the rest of my life."

She gets up and leaves. His mind reels enough that he doesn't even think of how she's going to find her way home until Shepard wakes and growls at him. He walks her home in silence, neither of them saying anything, yet both of them thinking similar thoughts.

**-x-X-x-**

The Viscount's boy is on the move again. _Interesting,_ Isabela thinks to herself as she watches him from the shadows. He spends almost all his time with Carver and Charade lately, conspiring together for ways in which they can go out and find Bethany. Every time though, Carver shuts them down. He doesn't want to risk everything for the big reward. He seems to have smartened up a little in that regard. No more heroics - not unless they involve only him in the line of fire.

"You don't trust him, do you?"

The voice is whispered in something like a purr. Isabela's heart leaps into her throat, but she makes no obvious indication of her shock. She nods slowly, reaching into the front of her boot for the dagger she keeps strapped inside.

"Can't say I blame you. Nobles are always pompous arses."

Charade squats down beside her in the shadows. Perched in an overhang on one of the dockside warehouses that required a bit of creative climbing to get to, Isabela thought that she wouldn't be encountering anyone anytime soon. That the woman has managed to find her so easily makes her more than a little bit curious - and a little bit turned on.

"But they do make such delightfully stupid targets," Isabela points out, one hand holding onto a wooden support beam, the other subtly wrapped around the pommel of her dagger. "As fun as the game can be, sometimes it's equally as entertaining to simply see the stupidity of Thedas' so called _elite._"

"I suppose you're right," Charade says. Her voice is husky, reminiscent of Hawke's . . . but with so much more _danger_ behind it. Not a bad kind either - the exciting kind. Isabela raises an eyebrow at her and says nothing. "I wouldn't bother sticking me with that knife, were I you. If I really wanted to tangle with you, I'd have done so by now."

"Oh?" Isabela can't resist bait like that. "What makes you think that you'd stand a chance in a tangle with me?"

Charade smirks, a delightfully predatory thing Isabela's only seen on the likes of Zevran. "Perhaps I know a few things that a pirate doesn't. There's only so many tricks you can pick up at sea."

Isabela manages to keep her laugh quiet. Saemus is on his way through the docks with his latest pitiful attempt at a disguise. Poor boy should learn that dockworkers don't walk hunched up like that. They strut, loud and proud about the muscles they've earned, even if they've gone days without food, sleep or another's touch. She sighs mentally. She can't help but want to teach him a few things about the world - even _Merrill _has managed to pick up how to blend in faster than she would have thought, and it's not like the elf is playing with a full deck of cards.

"Well, I _do_ like a good duel," Isabela says coyly. "Perhaps you'll have to show me these tricks of yours sometime. I can't have someone saying they know more about duelling than me."

There's mischief in Charade's eyes. "How about here and now?" she whispers, leaning close. "Perched above the streets, the sun beating down on our skin and with the risk of anyone looking up seeing what we're doing." She presses their chests together, runs a hand over Isabela's arm. Her touch is slow, measured, but Isabela can feel the subtle tremble when it's there.

She smiles. "Sweet Thing, I know what you're doing." Her smile turns into a smirk. "Protecting your friend is cute, but you're not distracting me from this - no matter how distracting you might be." She leans in close, brushes her lips against Charade's ear as she lets her hand drift across and down the other woman's exposed stomach. "Maybe I'll teach you a few things another time."

She snatches the dagger from Charade's belt and punches her in the stomach. Charade drops, breathless and Isabela winks at her prone form. "Never mess with the best, Sweet Thing," she says and blows her a kiss.

Charade grumbles something that has to be one of the many curses Isabela's heard before. Like water off a duck's back. When your own mother sells you off and your husband wants you to _entertain_ his friends, there's not a word in the world that can cut you as deep as that. Isabela has scars, but they've grown metal plate over them as tough as any soldier's armour.

Isabela leaps from the roof she stands on and lands with a grunt on another warehouse. She recognises the way Saemus is headed - to Darktown. She shudders. Nothing good ever happens there. Hawke's in another of his blame-everyone-that-couldn't-save-my-sister moods. Aggressive sex can be fun, as can dirty talk and heated words. But the way he's going . . . she's not getting involved in that. Sooner or later he'll snap. From what she's seen from before all of this shit, he's a nice guy - she could even see them becoming friends. But if he's going to keep up this act, then he's not getting any relief from her.

Varric says he'll snap out of it. Kitten worries herself daily, Prude seems to think that Isabela's only in it for coins and sparkly things, whilst Carver confided in her that Hawke's like this everytime Bethany's seemed to have been in danger. It will pass, he told her, but the look in his eyes said that he didn't quite believe his own words.

She would ask Anders . . . but the two of them don't talk much. Usually it's simply a case of her going there, dropping her breeches and having him cure whatever itch she may have picked up. Even then, with his hands above her nethers, he still insists on bleating on about the mages. _Yes_, they're oppressed, _yes, _slavery is a horrible thing, but quite frankly, unless she finds herself in a situation where she has to make a choice, Isabela just doesn't give a nug's uncle.

Saemus is walking faster, now he's away from the qunari compound_. Interesting_. Isabela can't quite blame him - being near to that place gives her the shudders in all the wrong ways. He looks around as if he's expecting someone to follow him. Silly boy never looks towards the rooftops. She should really teach him a thing or two - this hunt is embarrassingly easy!

She leaps down onto what smells to be an abattoir and continues her hunt. Saemus gets closer and closer to the mines and the entrance to Darktown. She follows his route and knows that she's got a decision coming - does she give up the chase, or does she take the plunge?

Well, it's not like she hasn't been into the sea before, Isabela figures. Besides, at least this way she won't have to pull her sopping wet ass out of the sea into an unknown town again. She grins, draws a deep breath and takes a running leap off the side of the warehouse.

The splash her dive makes sounds like a doozy. She imagines people racing towards the docks to see what lunatic's decided to try and kill themselves today, or just to see if someone's been thrown overboard. She treads water several feet down in the murky haze, letting the burn in her eyes go down a little. If she surfaces too soon, Saemus will doubtless see her.

She counts to fifty before deciding to surface. The crowds have mostly thinned, though there's still enough people there for her show. A few are offering her hands out of the water - those that she knows will try to grope her ass for payment. She swims to the other side of the docks instead, pulls herself out of the water with her own two hands and grunts as she flicks her soaking wet hair back.

At least she's not wearing white today. That wouldn't be conspicuous at all. The red of her blouse begins to turn a brown colour as the water seeps into it. Her daggers are all still where she left them, but she's lost the knife she stole from Charade.

Oh well, no loss.

She catches sight of a torch being lit in the entrance to Darktown. She rolls her eyes and instantly assumes Saemus. If he's going to skulk around, he shouldn't be drawing attention to himself! Let the lighting they provide down there be enough! Sure it's next to nothing, but at least you don't stand out.

"Bloody nobles," she sighs to herself, yet follows him regardless. If he gets killed down here, it would be nothing more than him being too stupid to live. But then Carver would be all upset and that would make Hawke upset and somehow, Isabela would end up having to listen to it all as they all drowned their sorrows outside her room.

She really needs to move out of the Hanged Man. Wonderful bar, shitty living space. Though she's had worse.

Her prey is easy enough to catch. All she needs to do is follow the moving light and sure enough, he's there. She crouches down in the darkness, stepping lightly as she follows him. He never once glances back to see if he's being stalker. Amateur. Poor boy should learn - shadows or no, there are always knives at your back.

Isabela glances over her own shoulder to make sure no one's following her. She's already been surprised once tonight.

Saemus moves through a set of tunnels Isabela doesn't recognise. She wonders if she should be offended that he knows the underground better than her. Then again, it's not like she spends any time down here by choice. The smell of elfroot gets a little bit stronger. It's almost enough to make her teeth go numb and her head go funny. Isabela bites down on the inside of her cheek, feels blood and continues until pain comes. Oh sure, elfroot's a brilliant pain reliever, but she's not exactly looking to get high right now.

Their path narrows into a small corridor. Isabela feels the world around her get that little bit smaller and holds a breath. She imagines the sea, the brilliant open expanse and the limitless sights of the world. She's not trapped in an underground darkness, not at all.

She sees a ball of light hovering at the end of the tunnel. She hisses, finds a small cutaway in the wall and presses herself against it as tightly as she can. Not as tightly as she'd light. Damn breasts! Men don't seem to realise that big breasts aren't simply gifts from the Maker himself. She hasn't even been able to pose as a boy since she was fourteen!

"Saemus," a voice says. Isabela stiffens. She _recognises_ the voice! It's happy, but she can hear the stressed, dark undertones the voice carries. "You weren't followed, were you?"

"No," Saemus says quickly. Isabela can practically _hear_ the beaming smile on his face. "I'm alone."

"Good," says the voice. Blast! Why can she recognise it but not tell who it is? Balls! "Come on, let's get you out of here. We need to shut this tunnel again before it's discovered."

_What._ Isabela nearly screams. _No, no, no they can't shut this tunnel!_ She'll be stuck in it with nothing but absolute darkness and she'll have to claw her way back out and who even knows what sort of blood-curdling horrors actually _live_ in the darkness of Darktown when there's no light to cow them!

She's just about to rush them, screaming and begging them for anything else when Saemus says, "No, don't. I may need to leave quickly. Besides, the smell of elfroot is rather . . . nauseating. We should let it disperse from here, otherwise someone may come investigating."

"You're right," says the other voice. "Good thinking."

Isabela breathes a sigh of relief. Her heart doesn't seem to be marching like an army anymore. She gives the voices a few seconds and continues after them. Their voices are further ahead and completely in whispers. Try as she might, she can't quite hear them. She picks up her pace a little, treads in a puddle and winces as the splash seems to echo around her.

They say nothing, but she follows more cautiously anyway. Nearly there, she tells herself. Nearly at whatever underground qunari-loving sex club Saemus is involved in.

And suddenly, she's not in the tunnel anymore.

"Well, this is interesting," she says. Suddenly she remembers who the other voice belongs to. It can't be anyone else, given that she's inside his healing clinic.

**-x-X-x-**

Carver rolls off the whore with a grunt. He finds a bottle of wine on the floor and smirks as he presses it to his lips and drains what little it left inside.

"Come on," he grunts to the woman, "what do you say?"

She doesn't hide the grimace she makes quickly enough. "I'm afraid you haven't paid me enough for _that_, serah," she says.

"Really?" Carver grunts. "Because I know for sure that the men here do _that_ for far less than the women charge."

"Well perhaps if you know that for sure, maybe you should go back to fucking them instead!"

"That's not what I – blast!" Carver groans as she stands up and leaves the room. He misses the sight of her naked ass, her breasts as they bounce up and down above him, sweat beading against them. He wants to run his hands across her stomach once more and listen to the way she moans as he presses himself inside her.

Instead he's left in the room alone, naked, sticky and ready to go once more. He sighs as he finds the wash basin and sets about cleaning himself up. Not like Madame Lusine is going to give him a refund, though he wonders if she'll give him a discount next time, considering this one ran off on him before their time was up.

He frowns as he slides his trousers on. What was her name? He can't even remember. Does it matter? He supposes not.

Downstairs the hall is lively with whores and drunkards. He's fairly certain he sees Isabela wandering upstairs with two male whores and a female one too. He blinks, shakes his head and tries not to think about it. It's not like his brother and her are exclusive - though with everything that's happened lately, Hawke hasn't exactly been putting himself about.

Not like Carver has.

He clenches his teeth as he tries not to think about it. Hawke doesn't say anything to him anymore. Just looks at him with some sort of darkness in his face that Carver can't quite understand. Before he would have been making jokes, telling people he was surprised Carver knew where to put it, that he thought Saemus had already laid claim to it. Now it's nothing but silence if he's lucky. If not, Hawke gets up and leaves the moment Carver gets in, taking Shepard with him and not returning until morning, smelling of either drink or sex and occasionally covered in blood.

Carver takes a deep breath. Anyone else, he would think the latter two were related. Not with his brother though - not his holier-than-thou brother. The one who can't do any wrong, despite the fact that he's the one that let Mother die and is the reason that they're gearing up to go back underground to find treasure in the place that the bastards who took Mother live.

The air outside is cold against his bare arms. He inhales as deeply as he can and sobers up just a little.

"I wonder; is it a coincidence or something more psychological that you and your brother have such different tastes in women?"

Carver stops himself from groaning aloud as the shadowy figure walks into view. "Go home Varric. I don't want to deal with this right now."

"Ah, but sir you see, that's where you're wrong! Everyone needs a loveable dwarf to talk to now and again."

"Well I _don't._"

"And thus; how Junior shows his love. It's alright, I know you hurt people because that's how you flatter them. And really Junior, I feel the same way too."

Carver sighs and stops walking. "What do you want, dwarf?" he demands.

"Well, _human_," Varric says, his smile not once leaving his face, "it's been brought to my attention that people have seen your best friend the Viscount's son sneaking out of the qunari compound late at night. Now, I don't know his reasons, nor do I want to know them, but I thought it would be within all of our best interests for you to warn him to be a bit smarter."

"I don't see how this concerns you."

"Think, Junior!" Varric says. "People know he allies himself with you and your brother. They know that your brother is friends with many people in different places - Anders, Isabela, Merrill, Aveline . . . _me_. People already hate the qunari. It's only a matter of time before they start attacking those they think are consorting with them or about to join them. When they're angry enough to go after the Viscount's son, they'll be bloodthirsty enough to go after his friends too."

"I suppose you have a point," Carver admits. "I'll talk with him on the morrow."

"Carver," Varric says rather forcefully. "Perhaps you don't really understand the weight of everything happening here. Come on, follow me."

Carver crosses his arms. "And why should I bother doing that?"

"Junior," Varric says, laughing. "If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done so by now. Maker knows if I did, your brother would certainly make my remaining days as painful as possible. Relax, you're among friends."

_I doubt that_, Carver wants to say. But he keeps his mouth shut, following Varric in stony silence as the dwarf talks constantly about everything from the price of merchant's wares to questions as to whether or not Flemeth in dragon form had a spotty backside.

When he sees that they're approaching the Viscount's Keep, Carver almost misses a step. He frowns and manages to pretend that nothing's happened. Varric becomes quiet as they approach the doors to the keep. The guards there are the Viscount's own personal ones, yet a nod from Varric and they move aside like any of the Lowtown thugs.

Even this late at night, the Keep is still filled with nobles filling the halls with their dreary complaints. Carver hears one or two mentions of him, whispers of _'So that's young Dumar's knight in shining armour' _and _'How could someone like that even think of befriending the Viscount's son?'_

Carver's just about to shout something when Varric shakes his head at him. Carver clenches his hands into fists. In any other circumstances he would ignore the dwarf. But playing nobles against each other is one of Varric's daily tasks. Unlike his brother, who always seems to be helping people in order to exploit them, Varric seems to actually do it out of the kindness of his heart.

Though Carver still has his suspicions as to whether or not those are his true motives.

They walk into the guards' barracks just as someone is being dragged out of the captain's office.

"Fereldan bitch!" he's screaming. "I'll gut you and your dog-lord lover for this! Mark my words!"

"So," Hawke drawls, "I don't suppose that he'll be able to pay us anything now."

Aveline just sighs. "It's a shame that Ewald disappeared so mysteriously. Though now everything's out in the open, I can't help but think Jeven was behind that too. A shame we have no proof for that." She sighs again. "Ewald was a good man."

Seneschal Bran is there with them. Carver glares at him from a distance. "Be that is it was, Aveline, it seems that the guard is in need of a new captain. I think given the loyalty you have shown, it would seem only right that you take the place."

Carver scowls in her direction. Here she is getting another promotion after she made certain that his application to the guard didn't even get considered. _Bitch_. He wants to walk down there and throttle her.

He catches his brother's eye for a moment. Shepard is by his side, tail wagging happily. Something crosses Hawke's face and suddenly it's like a mask. Carver could be looking at stone, for all he knows. He looks away first, hating himself for even that little weakness.

"Oh," Bran says as he passes Carver. "It's _you_. I trust that you're not leading Saemus into _more_ political shitstorms?"

It's Varric who answers for him. "Be thankful for that, my good man. It seems like without any of us around, you'd be without a job."

Bran just scowls at him and walks off, muttering things under his breath.

"Carver!" Aveline calls. She nods at him. "We need to talk."

Hawke doesn't say anything, but he brazenly walks into Jeven's old office.

"Hawke!" Aveline calls after him. "You can't go in there!"

"And why not? It's _your_ office now, Aveline. I think we should get a plaque. Do you think we should get a plaque? It makes things more official, doesn't it? Guard-Captain Aveline 'Fereldan Bitch' Vallen. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

Aveline is impossibly red as she storms in after him. Varric just chuckles and gestures towards the door. "Come on Junior. Better not keep them waiting – she just might kill Hawke if we give her enough time."

Carver doubts anything like that would actually ever happen, but he follows Varric regardless. Inside the office Aveline is already busy filing papers whilst Hawke is leant back in her chair, his feet on the desk and a file in his hands.

Shepard barks happily and buries his face in Carver's hands. Carver can't help but laugh as he scratches the mabari behind the ears. Some part of his mind tells him that his brother can't truly hate him – if he did, Shepard would be sat there growling at him. But the angry, silent, accusing glares are still enough to hurt, though he would never actually admit it.

The door shuts behind them. Carver spins around, about to draw a knife, when he sees that it's just Isabela. He frowns at her. "I thought I saw you back there?"

She smiles at him. "Ah, perhaps I was. Maybe they're warming my bed for me, getting ready for my return. I do find that one good tussle deserves another, don't you?"

Carver swallows. As tempting as Isabela might be, she's still been with his brother. Nothing can ever get rid of that fact. Though they may not be on speaking terms, he knows he could still never do that - if not because he doesn't want to hurt his brother's feelings, simply because he could never stand to hear he's in Hawke's shadow even _there._

"Let's not start talking about that," Aveline growls, shooting a venomous look at Isabela. She nods at Carver. "We've got a few problems. Saemus and the qunari."

Carver shrugs. "Saemus' business is his own."

"Whilst usually I'd agree with you, it's making people nervous. The more nervous they get, the more likely they are to panic and do something stupid." She paces the office, her hands folded behind her back. "Saemus' own guards are already suspicious. Soon even the coin they earn will not be enough to keep their lips tight - like someone else, I'm sure."

"Ah, and so it begins," Isabela sighs. "Perhaps you're just jealous that no one's offered coin or otherwise to make your lips loose in the longest time."

Aveline turns the colour of her hair. "So help me whore-"

"That's right," Isabela says, laughing. "You do need help. I do know a _marvellous _few men that might be able to help you in that regard."

"Can we stop this now, please?" Hawke say. Carver notices for the first time how _tired _his brother looks. The laughter lines from his eyes seem to be fading. Somehow he seems smaller than normal; it's almost like Shepard is able to dwarf him, even laying down on the floor as the mabari is. "It's late and I've still had no word about Bethany. Until we've found her, can we at least _pretend_ we can get along long enough to do a job?"

Carver doesn't miss the "Spoilsport," Isabela mutters as she saunters towards him.

"Carver." He's surprised to hear his brother's voice directed at him. "I know Saemus is your friend more than any of ours. I understand if there's something that you're trying to protect him for. But if he's in over his head, he'll need our help."

For a moment, he's almost tempted to tell them. Then he grits his jaw and shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on now," Varric sighs. "Where's the story in that?" None of them believe him. Carver can see that written across their faces, plain as day.

"I still want to know why he's taking the back alleys to go and see Anders," Isabela says as if she doesn't understand the weight of her words. "Anywhere else would be just foolish. But _Darktown?_"

The lack of reaction in everyone else's faces shows Carver that Isabela's already mentioned it to them. He doesn't know why she would have - she's always mentioning that she has no ties to Hawke. There's something else there, something more personal for her to gain.

"I'm sure his reasons for seeing a _healer_ are perfectly within reason," Hawke says. "It's not like none of us have ever had to go see him."

"Some for reasons more personal than others," Aveline snipes.

"Oh, again with the jokes!" Isabela laughs. "When was the last time a man tried to heal your wounds, hm? I bet you're just _aching_ for a good sword to pierce you."

"And _Bianca_ is starting to feel awkward," Varric says. "Now I'm sure if Junior says he doesn't know anything, then he doesn't know anything. The whispers of Saemus going to the qunari compound and someone else following him out of there must be nothing. I'm sure that the Viscount or someone will hear of it, realise it's an assassin and then do what needs to be done."

Carver sighs. He hates the fact that he's fallen so easily into this trap. He looks around; trying to make certain that the room they're in is secure. It has to be, he tells himself, because otherwise they wouldn't be in here talking so freely. He doesn't know about Aveline, but he's certain Isabela and Varric are smart enough to not discuss such things openly.

"Saemus wants to convert," Carver confesses like it's a dirty secret. It's not much of one between them, but he supposes to anyone else it would be. "He wants to become qunari - he likes their ideals, their ways of life."

"His decision," Hawke says with a shrug. "We can't all be devout Andrastians and dedicated to lives of purity free of sin."

"It's not just that though," Carver says. "Saemus . . . he's fallen for one of them. Ashaad, I think his name is. They're . . . I don't know what they are. Saemus has told me about it. He has feelings for him and they've been together, but qunari aren't supposed to fall for anyone that they're not told to. They're told who to marry and who to have children with. That Ashaad is doing something outside of that is enough to make his conviction to the Qun waiver, but it's also the fact that it's with Saemus - not just another man, but a _human_."

"Well . . ." Isabela says thoughtfully, "those qunari are rather large. I imagine they've got something worth showing off."

"Must you always lower the tone?" Aveline growls.

"Well no one else is going to around you."

"Ladies," Varric says, shaking his head. "Well, I can see how this will cause problems. The Viscount's boy hooking up with a horned demon. People are going to _love_ him. It's a wonder you've kept it secret for this long."

Carver shrugs. "Most people have assumed he's with me and looked the other way." The amount of stares he's received from the nobles in the Keep have been enough to let him know what they really think of such a thing though, even if they do condone it. Were it actually true, Carver isn't sure if he would be able to stop himself from attacking all of them.

"It's worse than that though," Hawke whispers. "It puts the Viscount in a horrible position. His enemies will use the fact that his son is seeing a qunari against him. People hate the qunari - they fear them. If they realise their leader's son is seeing one, it will make them lose confidence in him and try to overthrow him - violently if need be. Even if they don't and the qunari thing is resolved . . . they'll still see that Seamus can't produce an heir, even if that's not the case. They'll use that as another reason - the Viscount must have an heir, which will mean more violence."

"Well aren't you all doom and gloom lately?" Isabela mutters, glancing up from her nails.

"He's right though," Aveline says. "People are already losing faith in the Viscount. If this got out, it would be enough to make them overthrow him - with violence if necessary, just like Hawke said."

"Well shit," Varric says. "Lordling sure can pick them."

"I'm more curious as to where they're doing the deed," Isabela says, her eyes sparkling. "Can't be easy to sneak around someone as important as that. Must be even harder to sneak around a qunari."

Carver's sigh is more like a growl. "They have somewhere – I'd rather not mention where."

He doesn't want to say, if only because they've all been there. It's one of the abandoned houses they cleaned out recently. A band of thugs disguising themselves as guards to rob people - Aveline was _not_ happy. As it stands the property is still waiting for a new tenant, which means that Carver, Charade and Saemus have occupied it for a short time, making use of it as they see fit.

Aveline frowns. "Perhaps. But even so, Carver, we need to make sure that he's not in any danger."

"He's not," Carver says quickly. "Charade and I know where it is. Saemus comes to us before they're supposed to meet up. This has been going on for longer than any of you know about. Can you not just trust me with this one thing?"

Aveline goes to open her mouth to say something. Hawke cuts across her. "Leave it, Aveline," he says. "If they've managed to keep something like _this_ a secret, they're not doing too badly."

"Tell that to Saemus," Isabela snorts. "Poor boy doesn't know the first thing about blending in."

"We'll help him with that too," Carver growls. "He kept everything about Bethany secret – we owe him this much, at least."

He knows the look in both Varric's and his brother's eyes. They're not going to let it lie. They're going to find out as much as they possibly can. He needs to tell Saemus to be more careful.

Thankfully Isabela provides him with a reason to leave.

"Well, as fun as this is," she says, faking a yawn as she stretches, "I have some fun waiting for me. You can wear yourselves out with talk – I always prefer action."

She leaves, sauntering her way out of the door. Carver stands as she leaves. "I'm going home," he tells them. "I'll see Saemus tomorrow. I'll make sure to let him know everything."

He doesn't wait for them to answer him. He leaves the room, his shoulders high, intent on helping Saemus as much as he can. He needs to help him, because if he can help his friend then surely he's not as much of a failure as he feels.

He's already failed Bethany; he can't let that become his legacy.


	10. The Depths of Humanity

_**And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?  
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_Chapter Ten; The Depths of Humanity  
><em>

**-x-X-x-**

_"The trouble with people is that they let their emotions rule them. Those that are quick to anger, to fear or to upset are likely to let their emotions blind them into doing something they otherwise wouldn't. Those are the first signs of warning in normal people, but abominations too. Of course, abominations also become twisted mutant versions of themselves, which happens to be a powerful indicator too."_

Blood sprays across the ground. It trickles into the cracks in the stone and makes something similar to a glyph he's seen before, somewhere. Hawke discards the thought as he wipes his dagger clean. Demons or not, he wonders how anyone could get themselves into such a situation. Not for the first time he wishes his father was still here, to protect him from the world, to relieve the burden that coils round his neck like a noose with each passing day . . . to hug him and tell him that when he wakes up tomorrow, everything's going to be fine and everything since leaving Lothering has been nothing but a bad dream.

"He deserved to die," Aveline's voice is quiet in the ruins. Two glowing lights circle them - one blue and one green. Anders and Merrill say nothing, their faces hidden in the shadows of their magelight. "You did the right thing Hawke, but now you've made an enemy of his father."

Hawke shrugs. He looks to Merrill and sees her cradling the small girl they rescued. _How much blood is hers?_ The girl had begged them not to kill him. Merrill had turned the girl's head from the slaughter, but Merrill herself had watched, fire in her eyes. _Couldn't leave her to run back through the ruins herself, couldn't save her before something bad happened. _Shepard distracts her as much as possible. The mabari is larger than her, yet plays with her with a delicacy he rarely sees.

"I for one don't know what you're talking about." Isabela walks towards the corpse with heavy footsteps. Gone is her usual swaying grace. She looks down at him, nudges him with her boot and then kicks him in the ribs for good measure. "The ruins were overrun with demons. Don't know how he summoned them, but they found him and burnt his corpse beyond recognition."

"Oh that's just _typical_," Anders spits, "blame the mages for everything that's going wrong with your life. If something's going to cause you trouble, just -"

The corpse bursts into flames. Merrill stands, hand outstretched, flames still licking her fingers. "It's more than he deserves," she says darkly. "But that is what you meant, right?" She looks at Hawke, as if she's suddenly aware of what she's done. He doesn't know whether to hug her or pat her on the head. "If the magistrate thinks this place was overrun by demons, then he'll believe that we couldn't save his son in time."

"It's risking a lot," Aveline chides, "and I hate to agree with _her_, but it's for the best. If he was so insistent on us understanding that demons made him do it, he's likely told his father the same thing."

Isabela laughs. "Ooh! Guardswoman, who would have thought you had it in you? How does it feel to take _justice_ into your own hands?" Hawke doesn't miss the wink she throws at Anders. "Our mage friend here knows all about that. I bet he spends a lot of time taking justice into his own two hands."

Cracks of blue appear in Anders' face. "Is that all mages are to you? A joke, to be exploited when the opportunity arises?"

Isabela snorts. "The way he's acting, nothing's _arisen_ in a long time," she mutters under her breath.

Hawke sighs. Ordinarily he wouldn't mind this. But this isn't the place for such things. "Anders," he growls, grabbing him by the arm and squeezing tightly. The hairs on his arm stand on end. The smell of lyrium is almost intoxicating. "Do you really think that _this_ is the ideal time? After what this _child_ has just been through?"

Anders' eyes are glowing blue. Hawke keeps his face as stoic as possible. He feels Aveline and Carver move behind him. Isabela is making remarks under her breath, but Hawke thinks he can count on her. Merrill is too busy looking after the child. Finally Varric breaks the silence, saying, "Seriously Blondie? The dashing rogue can't exactly win over fans if he scares small children every time he doesn't get his way." He's got Bianca drawn and ready. As he slides a finger over her trigger, he shakes his head and says, "Don't make us do this, Blondie. There's a time and a place for everything."

Clarity slowly returns to Anders' eyes. He blinks, shakes his head and groans a little. "I'm sorry," he says quickly. "It's just that when Justice-"

"You can't blame that _thing_ inside you forever," Carver spits. "How can you claim to stand for freedom when you are everything that people fear? People like you are the reasons the Templars exist. Every moment I spend around you is another I spend wondering why I haven't signed up."

"_Enough!"_ Hawke growls. How has it come to this? What happened to the days where they were kept together just by their common goals? Has he really let things get so bad, so quickly? Varric's silver tongue only works so many wonders. He takes a breath. He's been focused on Bethany for too long. If - _when_ - she returns, he can take it easy. Until then, he realises that he shouldn't let things run away from him.

Maybe he shouldn't have brought them all out here, but Aveline needed to be here. She's going to be captain of the guard and needs to show that she's willing to still have a hands-on approach - or so she'd said when she told Hawke she was coming. He couldn't let Merrill stay behind when the girl had gone missing from the alienage she lives in, and whether she admits it or not, Isabela has a soft spot for children in trouble. Varric tends to come along on all these journeys, helping out until Hawke has the coin for the Deep Roads. He also convinced him to bring Anders along, just in case the girl needed healing. And he couldn't bring everyone along without inviting Carver. He sighs. Maybe he should have realised earlier this was going to be a bad idea. At least Shepard is just happy to see everyone in general.

He looks at them all in turn, though focuses mostly on Anders and Carver. "This isn't the time or the place. Our excuse _might_ be that demons have overrun the ruins, but in case you've all forgotten the last lot of corpses that happened to be _on fire_, there _are_ demons crawling around in here. So why don't we save the pointy ends of our weapons for them, hm?"

He sighs, rubbing his eyelids. "How's Lia doing, Merrill?"

She squeaks as if surprised she's been spoken to. "Um, well, she's asleep. She kept shaking and crying that we'd killed him, so I thought that maybe a sip of a sleeping draught would help. Nothing too strong, but so that we don't have to worry about her running off and attracting ghoulish things. I think there's already enough of them trying to eat us without anyone bringing them back."

"Probably for the best," Varric says. "Poor thing's seen Maker-knows-what already. We don't want to add slaughtering demons to the list of nightmares she's going to have."

"The demons are easier to deal with," Isabela mutters. No one seems to hear her but Hawke. When he turns to look at her, she's staring into the darkness of the ruins, pretending that she hasn't said anything.

"Okay," Hawke says, "let's move. I for one don't want to have to deal with anymore corpses coming back to life. How do blood mages even manage to do that? It's not like they have blood."

"It's not blood magic," Merrill says quickly. There's a hardness in her voice that doesn't seem to have been there before. "It's just manipulating the Veil. Any mage can do it, if they concentrate enough. Anders did it when he left the Grey Wardens."

The ruins seem to grow even more silent for a moment. Finally a chorus of 'What's cry out, complete with Anders beginning to glow blue.

"What are you trying to say?" he growls. "I'm nothing like you! I did nothing of the sort."

Merrill doesn't falter. She just adjusts her body to shield Lia. "I'm not as stupid as you think, Anders. I mean, I might not understand human culture much, but I'm still not stupid. Do you think Asha'bellanar would have really warned Marathari about you, if it was not true?"

The blue glow intensifies. Hawke winces and reaches for his daggers even as Carver beings moving to Merrill.

"Flemeth?" Varric nearly laughs. "The Witch of the Wilds and your Keeper just sat around and discussed Anders over tea, did they?"

"Not Anders, the spirit inside him."

It's as if she's tempted fate once too often. _**"You know nothing about me, blood mage!"**_

The smell of lyrium stings Hawke's nose. A chill wind grows around them all, glowing as blue as Anders. Shepard is barking at him, Merrill stares defiantly at him and Carver is between them both, sword drawn and ready.

"_**What does Flemeth think she knows of me? I am older, greater and stronger than even her!"**_

"Anders," Hawke says dangerously, "Justice . . .whatever you call yourself now. Here's your only warning; _stand. Down._"

"Typical abomination," Carver spits. Hawke wants to slap him. Aveline looks like she might just do that. "A hypocrite of the highest order. Defend the mages at all costs, yet the moment you're revealed for what you are, you start threatening everyone. We should have turned you into the Templars when we met you."

It proves to be completely the wrong thing to say.

"_**Puppet!"**_Justice roars. _**"Another tool of the templars! Mages will never be free whilst your kind is allowed to live!"**_

Fire bursts from his hands. Carver hisses and throws himself over Merrill, knocking them both to the floor. Lia drops out of her hands and hits the floor, still asleep. Hawke hopes it's just that as he runs at Anders, or whatever he's become.

Aveline snarls from behind her shield. The ground around her glows as blue as the cracks in Anders' skin. She cries out as the earth begins to crawl over her, trapping her in place. Isabela of all people is by her side, chipping the earth away with her daggers, swearing frequently.

Arrows burst into flames as they come anywhere near Anders. He turns his burning glare on Varric and suddenly the dwarf is thrown across the room, Hawke swears as frost creeps over his clothes, chilling his nerves and turning his skin purple. He's already lost one sibling, he'll be damned if he loses another.

"Carver!" He rolls him onto his side and sees the blood trickling from his temple. Carver groans only slightly. He's alive and slightly singed.

"_**We thought you were above all of this,**_" Justice shouts, _**"we thought you could be an ally. Yet you leap to the defence of the puppets without hesitation."**_

"Aren't mages meant to be trapped and enslaved? Aren't you meant to be all about protecting the innocents?" Fury is like its own magic in Hawke's veins. He feels his blood boiling at the thought of the creature hurting his family. "Some act of preserving freedom! Attacking any who stand in your way? Even _children? _It's a good thing you're not part of the Grey Wardens anymore, Anders. They'd have executed you on the spot for being such a hypocritical creature. You're nothing but an abomination."

Anders' eyes flicker. The briefest flash of brown returns to them. Hawke doesn't hesitate. He takes his dagger and buries it deep in Anders' heart. Anders gasps, his mouth wide, his eyes back to brown. The cracks of blue in his skin begin to fade, dulling as bright red spills from his chest and over the floor.

"_Never_ hurt my family," Hawke growls and pulls free the blade. He places his boot on Anders' chest as he drops to the floor, watching the light go out of his eyes. "What?" he mocks, cocking his head. "Unable to heal yourself from this? It seems even your spirit friend has abandoned you."

Anders reaches out, almost as if he's trying to say something. Hawke kicks his body over and lets him die, face first in the dirt.

When he turns to everyone else, he sees the effects of Anders' magic have faded. Their faces are all sullen, emotions hidden from him. Only Carver's is easy to read - he seems to think Hawke did the right thing. Merrill and Shepard are too busy fussing over Lia to pay attention to anyone else. Isabela doesn't quite meet his eyes and Varric seems to be lost in his own thoughts.

Finally Aveline touches his elbow as he passes. "You did the right thing, Hawke. He was a danger to himself as well as everyone else."

"I know," he says without emotion. He crouches by Carver and checks his head, even as he's knocked away with reassurances. "Hold still, you blighted nug-head." He manages the tiniest of smiles when Carver does exactly that. "You'll live," he decides, punching his shoulder. "I'll even let you choose who gets to apply the burn salves to your back."

"You're an ass," Carver says, but without the usual venom. His attention is diverted almost instantly as Merrill stands up. "Are you alright?" He leaps to his feet and looks like he doesn't know whether he should hold her or not. It's almost sweet.

"Should we burn him?" Merrill finally whispers. "It's what you humans do in Fereldan, isn't it? You burn your dead." She takes Lia in her arms again and runs her fingers through the girl's hair, even as she sleeps still. "The Veil is thin in this place. I think maybe that made him act that way."

"It still doesn't excuse him for having the demon inside him in the first place. As for what to do with him . . . Anders is well, an Anders." Hawke sighs, the weight of the blood on his hands strangely heavy. He never thought it would come to such a thing. At least not so soon. "I'm not certain what they do over there. Isabela?"

She looks at him and grunts a laugh. "What makes you think I know? Sure I've been over there, but I've never spent much time wondering about how to deal with _their_ dead. I deal with sailors. We bury ours at sea." She saunters towards a door and tries to open it. Growling when it doesn't open, she crouches down and hisses suddenly, punching the door. "These doors have no locks to pick. It's no wonder Tevinters are all insane – they must have driven themselves crazy building doors that can't be unlocked."

Hawke sighs and rubs his head. The headache he feels growing is going to be worse than a hangover. Shepard barks happily around Merrill, all conflict apparently forgotten. Hawke's surprised Carver isn't jealous of the _mabari_ stealing Merrill's attention.

"Hawke," Varric whispers as Aveline tries to help Isabela with the door. "I know that Blondie gave us no choice. Don't doubt me when I say that even though I regret him dying, I knew it had to be done. But . . ." He looks to Anders' body, face first on the ground and bleeding over the stone. "We can't just leave him there. We knew him when he was alive. He might have been an abomination . . . but I don't feel right leaving him like that."

"I know," Hawke says. "Let's just focus on getting Lia out of here first. I think her father's worried himself sick thinking that she's dead. Undoubtedly the magistrate will send a team of people here to see if what we say about his son is true. All we need to do is disguise ourselves as the guards he sends in, recover Anders' body and bury or burn him."

"I hope this plan of yours works, Hawke."

"So do I," he sighs. "If nothing else, this screws up our plans for the Deep Roads a little."


End file.
